A Flawless Plan
by Drea Leeways
Summary: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn’t supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H-D slash.
1. Planning

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Categories**: angst, slash, humor

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**Author's Notes**: You're currently looking at what I've proudly come to reffer to as 'A Flawless Plan, Second Edition'. The first was full of appalling spelling and grammar mistakes (don't let my e-mail address fool you – I'm not a native English speaker). If you've read the first one, you should be aware there's no major plot change in this new version and it still ends the same, but there are some completely new scenes, while others have been modified. I'm convinced it's a better read now, and funnier, I hope. I dedicate it to those of you who read it the first time, despite it's flaws. 

Btw, most of the original notes are gone. I also rated it R from the beginning, but it's mostly for the last chapters. And, erm… I'm working on a sequel. Really.

The symbols *…* / **…** are used instead of Italics (**…** is for longer fragments like letters, flashbacks). 

A Flawless Plan

by Drea Leeways

I. Planning

II. Transforming

III. Win Some, Loose Some

IV. The Meaning of Hate

V. Collateral Benefits

VI. Acceptance, Denial and What Lies in Between

VII. Unwanted

VIII. Farewell, Mystery Girl

IX. Make Me Forget

X. Not Happy Ever After

Epilogue

I. [Planning]

Some plans are flawless. Human beings aren't. 

Yeah, really profound, I know. I've stumbled over this little piece of wisdom all by myself, mind you. Sounds a bit like those silly messages Muggles place inside fortune-cookies. Well, what can I say, Mother loves Muggle Chinese food. I suppose she does so mostly because it drives Father mad. Driving Father mad is one of Mother's favourite pastimes… Anyway, I'm sure you realised that's rather not the point here.

~``~

It started as a game. A game born out of revenge and the stupid need to prove myself. A game that was meant to cause pain and confusion, a game meant to break Potter's mind, but nonetheless a game. It shouldn't have gone so horribly out of my hands. 

I guess I'll begin with the beginning – though, come to think about it, the beginning wasn't all that spectacular…

One evening, two weeks into my seventh year at Hogwarts, a letter arrived, sent by Father. It started with the usual nonsense about the Malfoy Family Pride, which I could've easily recited by heart, so I didn't bother with it. I suppose I wouldn't have read the letter at all, at least not right then, but for two sentences which captured my attention.

**Draco, son, you should be very proud of yourself. Our Lord values you enough to entrust you with a mission of vital importance for His plans…**

Well,that at least, was something new. Shocking as it might be, as Father was almost openly part of the Dark And Scary One's inner circle, I myself was more or less clueless (which is rather 'more' than 'less') as to what Evil Plans His Wicked Mind was curently weaving. I knew what most knew – Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. I, his son, was to become one after finishing school. (Apparently, the Frightful One found students carrying his mark right under Dumbledore's big crooked nose a bad idea. Very sensible.) You didn't want to piss He-Who-Is-Euphemistically-Reffered-To off. Slytherins are evil. The basics, really. 

And then, I also knew some things that most didn't, namely, a nasty dozen of Dark Spells, courtesy of intensive 'holiday study', as Father liked to put it. 

But, a mission? I could have never imagined I was so trustworthy! (Please, note my sarcasm here.) 

**You are aware, of course, that Harry Potter is a constant obstacle in our Lord's path to ultimate greatness.**

To put it directly… No shit, Father? Oh, well, I should have figured it would be Wonder Boy again! Never thought, though, that the Dark One Himself found Scar Head so worthy of his 'attention'. Potter had always struck me as the proverbial itch in His Evilness' Ugly Arse, rather than a serious threat to the All-Mighty Forces of Darkness. And let me tell you, it's highly embarassing that there had been a time when Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, believed that. But I've learned to never underestimate Potter again. 

**For reasons beside your concern, it is imperious that when this year ends and Potter leaves Hogwarts for good, he will be weak, tired of living and fighting, in other words, defenseless. Our Master wants the boy to be 'broken' to such an extent that he wouldn't care or want to oppose Him when time comes.

**This, son, is your mission. I don't care how you do it. In fact, I don't want to know how you do it. Use any means necessary, but use them wisely and avoid unpleasant accidents, namely, expulsion. If you fail, the Dark Lord will be extremely displeased with you and so will I.

**Needless to say, this letter is to be destroyed as soon as you finish reading it.**

Straight to the point, that's the style that suits Father the best. Break Potter or prepare for a fate worse than death! Yeah, I know there was no actual threat in the letter, but what image do the words 'the Dark Lord will be extremely displeased' summon to your mind? Because right then, I, myself, could easily picture my body repeatedly subjected to the 'gentle touch' of Cruciatus, were I to fail in my assigned mission. Disturbing, to say the least… Sod that, I wasn't going to let it happen! I wasn't going to fail! I was going to stand up to the challenge like a Malfoy! 

Did Father think I couldn't do it? Perhaps he did, in which case I was to prove him how wrong of him was to underestimate his own son. For, I didn't have to think much to come up with a plan. What can I say, I'm an evil genius. The instant I finished reading the letter, I knew precisely what I was going to do. Even Father would have spared a shiver had he known my intentions. And there was no way I would fail.

~``~

I still have no idea what Father imagined I *would_*_ do, though. Follow Potter around, provoke him, play silly pranks on him and his friends, get him into detention? Potter had, at some point, stopped reacting to this kind of childish taunts in a satisfactory manner, losing me, thus, one of the few sources of amusement I had had inside the dull walls of that stupid, boring school. 

If I insulted him, he wouldn't even look at me. If I insulted his friends, he would throw a fierce glare in my direction, but nothing more than that. If I insulted his dead parents, then he indeed seemed to wake from his damned apathy, drawing his wand to curse me, or, maybe, if I'd been trying hard enough, going instead for the old-fashioned punch in the face. But the Weasel and the Mudblood were always there to hold him back and he never fought them. I still used to sabotage his work in Potions every now and then, mostly for the sake of old times, without really expecting much to come of it. He knew it was me every time when his cauldron exploded, or when his potion evaporated at the end of the class, before he managed to fill his vial and hand it to Snape. Yet he never lost his temper when Snape took points from him on my account, or made him look like a total incompetent in front of everyone. He only stared at me and Snape with deep contempt and sometimes hate, but nothing more.

Oh yes, the age of insignificant, infantile pranks was gone. This time, Potter would get so messed up inside, he'd wish he hadn't been born! 'Use any means necessary.' I bet, Father, you could never have imagined just how resourceful your beloved son could be. 

I proceeded to bring my plan to life with extreme precaution and without hurry. Because I knew that by the time it was accomplished, Potter would've become nothing more and nothing less than a human wreck. I hadn't taken into account the possibility of becoming one myself. Like a wise man once said, shit happens. Damn Potter!

(I've just heard Father's voice in my head. 

"Language, Draco."

Damn him too! It's not like it matters anymore.)

~``~

Next day, I started working on my plan to destroy Potter as soon as I woke up. First thing, I wrote to Father, letting him know that I had a plan and needed an Invisibility Cloak to achieve it. He'd never wanted to let me have one before, no matter how insistently or often I kept asking. However, this time things were different and I had the upper hand. In fact, he probably thought I didn't really need the Cloak, but rather exploited the opportunity for all it was worth. I didn't mind him believing me capable such a petty scheme, for I was, after all, a Slytherin. 

Whatever Father might have thought of my request, he didn't dare risking the failure of the mission entrusted to me by His Wickedness, only because he himself didn't trust his son. As a result, on the same evening my hands were touching the beautiful, silvery fabric of the requested Invisibility Cloak. 

Time for next step had come. I could practically feel my skin buzzing with excitement. My plan was so evil, so perverse, so beautiful. 

I don't know how many students of my age have heard about the Transjuice Potion. I suspect a bunch of Ravenclaws and Granger had stumbled over the name while doing extra-curricular reading, but otherwise, it's not even mentioned in any of our school books. I, myself, had read about it back at home, over the summer, in one of the many Dark Arts books Father prided to own, despite the Ministry's 'vigilant' eye. 

So let me tell you a bit about the Transjuice Potion. According to the book I read, it's a rather unusual potion, and it also needs a spell to be performed in order to work. Brewing the actual potion is fairly easy, though not quite a walk in the park. Someone like, let's say, Longbottom wouldn't have been able to do it even if his life had depended of it. But I could. And I was going to.

The ingredients for the Transjuice Potion are basically the same as for the Polyjuice Potion, minus the bit of the person to transform into. Because, obviously, it's not meant to do the same thing as the Polyjuice Potion. Not the same, but something quite similar. The Transjuice Potion is meant to transform the taker, for precisely one hour, into a member of the opposite gender. Got a hint about my plan, now? It should be quite obvious from this point on. So obvious, so simple, so perfect. An absolutely flawless plan and Potter would never suspect!

The Transjuice Potion is also very dangerous. I guess it's the reason why no school book mention it. Oh, and it's Dark, have I mentioned that? If abused or used improperly, it could result into the death of the taker. However, I didn't worry very much about that particular aspect right then. I suppose I was confident enough in my own abilities as a wizard. Malfoys don't believe in failure. It goes as a rule in our family. 

That night, with the aid of my newly acquired Invisibility Cloak, I broke into Snape's office and stole the necessary ingredients for my potion. I stole some more random ingredients, so he wouldn't suspect what the unknown thief (that being me) was up to. I started brewing the potion on the same night in a disused classroom. It would take almost a month for it to be ready and I really didn't have any time to waste. 

~``~

So far, my plan was working perfectly. When the time would come, Potter won't know what hit him! 

But there was still a whole month of inactivity, as far as the 'Potter operation' was concerned, ahead of me. I decided to make the best out of it and watch Potter on every opportunity that presented, getting thus familiar with every thought, emotion, idea or intention of his. Of course, I had to do it as inconspicuously as possible.

On the exterior, Potter hadn't changed drastically since the first time I'd seen him. He was still rather short, shorter than Weasley (but that didn't count, because almost everyone was shorter than Weasley) and shorter even than the Mudblood. His hair was still the same styleless mess it had always been and he continued to wear his silly pair of glasses. I knew he could afford to have his eyes magically repaired, so I assumed he insisted in keeping those glasses only out of pride. They had become as much a distinctive sign of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Had Been Thick-Skulled Enough to Bounce Off Avada Kedavra, as the scar resulted in the said bouncing.

Anyway, that was only on the exterior. The more I watched, the more I noticed that there was, after all, something different about him. He was more quiet and rarely laughed at Weasley's jokes (not that I blamed him, but, still, he used to laugh at those lame attempts of humour before). His eyes had grown darker, but there was also a hint of fear in them, which I couldn't understand. Wasn't Potter supposed to be the fearless hero? Well, maybe I was wrong about it.

One day, I decided to test his reactions again and I provoked him outside the Potions classroom. Weasley wasn't with him for the class, as he had spectacularly failed to get an OWL in Potions back in our fifth year. Granger had vanished at the end of the lesson, probably on her way to the Library. Potter was alone. 

"Some people are really lame at Potions," I casually remarked to Crabbe and Goyle, who had just arrived to meet me (they had that in common with Weasley – never in a million year could they have made it in Advanced Potions. The irony of my words was lost on them, as they hasted to aprove me.) Naturally, I had made sure Potter heard me perfectly. 

"I wonder why does Professor Snape allow in his class such incompetents, whose cauldrons blow up every lesson, famous as they might be?"

Needless to say, I was the one who had caused his cauldron to explode. Even so, I didn't expected him to react so quickly at a taunt regarding his so-called incapacity. There had been days when I could have called him a Squib and he wouldn't as much as have raised an eyebrow.

"Do you have a problem with me, Malfoy?" He unexpectedly grabbed the neck of my robes and slammed me into the nearby wall. Crabbe and Goyle finally reacted, and immobilized Potter, but my head was now spinning.

"It's you have some serious problem up here, Potter!" I pointed to his forehead. "Guess all that fame made you paranoid! What, you dreamed I insulted you and came to get your revenge?"

"I don't *dream* about *you*, Malfoy! *You* are too insignificant!" his eyes were shooting daggers at me, but he didn't struggle to free himself from the hands of my Slytherin fellows. Goyle punched him hard in the ribs for insulting me, but I prevented him from doing it again with a slight wave of hand. I wanted Potter to finish his words. 

He looked at me, eyes full of hate, although doubtlessly, he would have crouched on the floor in pain the second Crabbe and Goyle let go of him.

"I am tired and sick of you, Malfoy! Don't you think I know it's you're fault for everything that goes wrong with my work during Potions? Don't you think I know that Snape's knowing it, too, but does nothing because you're the son of your father? How bloody daft do you think I am?"

"Oh, Potter, I'm so flattered! I was beginning to fear you'd never notice it was me!" I retorted sarcastically.

"Listen to me, Malfoy! When I said you are insignificant, I meant it! You're nothing but a minor disturbance! All the things you're doing, trying to drive me insane, all those things won't mean nothing the instant I'll face your beloved Dark Lord and it'll be either me or him! Do you listen to me, Malfoy, nothing!"

My blood started boiling with anger. How dared he calling me 'nothing'? I had to fight very hard to maintain my composure.

"Oh, do go on, Potter! Modesty truly becomes you! Well, well, listen to that," I turned to Crabbe and Goyle, who started snickering, "Scar-Head here thinks that he and only he can defeat the Dark Lord!"

I had expected, at that point, that Potter would struggle to get free and hit me, or insult me, or even that he would remain silent and show me with his eyes precisely how much he despised me. What I certainly hadn't expected was for Potter to start laughing. Which he did. At first it had been merely a bemused chuckle, then it grew louder and louder, and the sound of his voice filled the hall, yet his eyes remained devoid of any amusement.

"So you don't know yet, Malfoy?" he asked me, between two fits of laughter. "Son of Lucius Malfoy, and you have no clue?"

I didn't understand, of course, but his reaction drove me so mad I would have punched his stupid face right then and there, if it hadn't been for Professor's Snape sudden appearance.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Malfoy?"

Potter stopped laughing, only to resume his glare. He was getting really good at it. I could have thrown all the blame on him and get him detention in the blink of an eye. I don't know why I didn't.

"Nothing's happening, sir!" I assured Snape "You see, Potter here was feeling ill and we were on our way to helping him to the Infirmary," I explained without blinking.

That's the beauty of being a Slytherin, you see. It goes as an understatement that Slytherins can speak the most blatant lies in front of their Head of House where a Gryffindor is concerned, and get away with it. Naturally, Snape didn't believe a single word. However, he turned on his heels and walked away with only a word of warning. 

"Be careful, Mr. Malfoy, your father wouldn't be very pleased if you got yourself in any kind of trouble!" 

I briefly wondered if Snape knew about my mission.

"Yes, sir." 

Then Snape was gone and so was my anger. I don't like loosing control. It's the sign of a weak mind. But as long as Potter was around, it was bound to happen. So I ordered Crabbe and Goyle to let him go. He didn't collapsed on the floor as I'd expected, although he swayed dangerousely close to falling as he walked away down the corridor.

His words and his laughter followed me that day and many others that followed, like a restless, annoyingly persistent ghost. Despite this, I didn't write Father for an explanation. Perhaps Potter had been bluffing in order to get me mad, or perhaps he hadn't. Yet, whatever it was that I didn't know, Father was the last person to tell me, unless it was in his personal and direct interest.

~``~``~


	2. Transforming

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humor

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N:** The symbols *…* / **…** are used instead of Italics (**…** is for longer fragments like letters, flashbacks).

A Flawless Plan

by Drea Leeways

II. [Transforming]

The rest of the month flew by like a Thestral, that is, mostly unnoticed. Between classes, brewing the potion, trips around the castle wrapped in my Invisibility Cloak, observing Potter and picking random fights with him, there wasn't much time for anything else. 

The trips around the castle at night became a habit pretty soon after receiving my Invisibility Cloak. I knew Potter had one, too, and was probably using it the same way I did. So I tried to track him down, but he somehow managed to avoid me every time (I couldn't understand it then, because he definitely didn't know I, too, had an Invisibility Cloak), yet I never saw or heard anything to indicate his presence. There had been only one exception. We were both wearing our Cloaks and we didn't become aware of the other's presence until we collided rather violently. I assumed that, whatever Potter had been doing on the other nights to avoid me, he neglected to do on that particular occasion.

He, I have to say, had been more surprised than I, even shocked by our unexpected encounter. Which only proved that until then he had had no idea I had a Cloak as well. I was rather furious he'd found out about it, but I didn't want to pick a fight and draw attention to the fact that we were out of bed so late at night and get detention. I could've invoked Prefect duties and get away with it, but I still didn't want anyone else to know about my Cloak. So I quietly covered myself and went away. Potter did the same.

And then, the inactivity period was finally over. The night when my plan would truly come to life arrived at long last. The Transjuice Potion was ready.

Using my Cloak, I sneaked again to the disused classroom where I had brewed the potion. I couldn't but hope Potter wasn't anyway near to witness what was about to happen. 

There is a reason (and quite a good one, I'd say) for which, when you learn about the Polyjuice Potion, one of the first things they say is never try turning into someone of the opposite sex. This kind of transformation is highly unstable and dangerous. That's what the Transjuice Potion is for. It's not as unstable as the Polyjuice because you don't actually turn into a different person, but into the person you'd have been if you had been born a girl instead of a boy or a boy instead of a girl. 

To be perfectly honest, the mere idea had nauseated me at first. When the initial excitement for my plan was gone, and the difference between theoretically becoming a girl and actually going to do it struck me like a viciousely-aimed Bludger, I found myself shuddering at the thought. But still, it was something that was going to happen in the future. I was going to deal with it when the time would come. Only, the time had come already. Yet I was no less determined. I can overcome disgust. It's easier to overcome than pain or fear. There are a lot of things that disgust me, but I have to put up with them, like Mudbloods, for example, or some of Father's 'friends'. Yet I go to school with the former and attend reunions back at home where the latter are invited. So I had kept telling myself, how bad was it going be? Well, one thing was for sure. I would find out for myself soon enough.

~``~

There was no need to delay the moment any further. But, first thing first, the potion and the spell had to be tested. I had captured several Candlelight Butterflies the other evening using a Conjuring Spell and secured them in a jar, enchanted to keep them alive as long as I needed. (Dark stuff, naturally, they never teach you that in school, but Father believed in expanding the boundaries of education.) The butterflies where perfect for my purpose because one could easily tell the males from the females. The former were larger and more vividly coloured.

I conjured my first test subject, a male butterfly. I poured a drop of Transjuice Potion over its body, pointed my wand to it and said, as clearly as I could, the one word of the spell. 

*Convercorpus.* 

I have to admit, shameful as it is, that my first attempt at the Convercorpus Spell failed gloriously. The butterfly disintegrated, bad luck for him. However, I managed the next two better. They transformed, but still died. The rest weren't a problem at all. I transformed them forth and back several times and they survived, though the looked a bit dizzy. It was time to try the potion and the spell myself. Whoever said Slytherins lacked courage!

Actually, I'd lie if I said I wasn't nervous about it. But nothing had prepared me for what would follow. I took a sip. And another. I didn't feel anything strange happening to my body up to that point, except for the slight stomach disturbance caused by it's horrid taste. I pointed my wand to myself. Piece of cake, really. One word, loud and clear. 

*Convercorpus.*

Barely had the last syllable escaped my throat that I dropped the goblet and collapsed on the floor, writhing in pain.

I hate pain more than anything else, you see. I hate it because I can't control it. I hate it because pain can make one loose all traces of dignity and turn into a crawling, despicable sub-human life form. I fear it for the same reason. I had seen the Cruciatus performed back at home, in the dungeons. Father was punishing a fellow conspirator suspected of betrayal. After a couple of minutes, there was nothing left of that wizard but a yelping puppy that would have licked Father's boots had he commanded him so. Hell, he would've licked Father's arse, but I don't think Father is into that sort of thing. Anyway, he said it was a lesson about power that I had to learn. 

I'm not the one to underestimate pain, much as I hate it. Sooner or later, everyone breaks. I fall into the 'sooner' cathegory. Though I didn't cry during my transformation – I didn't make a single sound, as far as I recall – I would've sold my soul in the blink of an eye to make the pain go away. Luckily for me, there was no fiend around to bargain for it. It felt altogether like being skinned alive, stabbed with countless little poisonous needles and then have melted iron poured over the open, bleeding wounds. 

And yet, pain is so ellusive. Once it's gone, your body and mind will do anything to forget about it. You take a deep breath and you're filled with nothing but gratitude for it being over. And, in my case, a persistent sickness in the stomach. I stood up shaking. My clothes were now too big for my… well, 'her' body, I should say – so I slipped out of them. I had brought a mirror, some nights ago, precisely for that moment. Feeling incredibly nauseous, I headed for the spot where it awaited.

And there 'she' was. I tried to convince myself it wasn't that bad, after all. I failed miserably. The feeling of disgust I was experiencing in my stomach intensified. When Mother Nature had decided for me to be a boy, She had had some very good reasons (other than not wanting to get Father Seriously Pissed Off, I mean. Really, there are very few people, beings, entities et caetera that would dare to get Father Pissed Off, not to mention Seriously). I was currently staring at a pale skinny girl of my age, bearing an uncanny resemblance to myself, and yet I was unable to shake the feeling I was staring at a stranger. On top of it, she had rather small, unattractive breasts. If I didn't find my own… ugh! That is, 'her' own breasts attractive, how was Potter ever going to do so? Anyway, I wasn't sure I wanted him to. Perhaps it was better that 'she' would mesmerize him with 'her' brilliant intelligence and witty remarks. Oh, who was I trying to fool? 

I became curious about 'her' voice. I said something loud, don't remember what. 'She' had a clear, mellifluous, little voice. The voice of a child, so innocent that I almost laughed with the irony of it. I turned to the mirror again. 'She' had my soft, silvery-blond hair, except that it was longer and fell over 'her' back, all the way down to 'her' waist. (Weird, how that Potion worked.) It was the eyes that made me gasp in horror. They were _my_ eyes, not a single bit changed. My eyes on a stranger's face. 

'She' actually resembled me quite well. I expected this, of course, and I was prepared. Potter would most likely notice the resemblance, too, and then my plan was as good as rubbish. 

First of all, I put on my robes. I figured I'd have to wear nothing but the robes, as I didn't have any girl clothes and no way to procure them without arising suspicion. Well, definitely a girl wearing only her robes, bare foot on top of it (shoes were too large now), would capture Potter's attention! But the floor was so damn cold! And there's obviousely no way to perform a Warming Charm if you've got no shoes to perform it on in the first place. Bloody McGonagall, never taught us to transfigure shoes! 

With my feet turning blue with the cold already, I went back to the mirror and performed a spell to transfigure the robes into a tighter model, and then another one to keep me warm. I also wiped away the Slytherin crest and charmed them a faded blue. The clothing gave 'her' a surreal look, like 'she' was a being from another world. Which, in a way, 'she' was.

I focused my attention on the hair next. The colour could very well betray me, so it had to change. Luckily, I had managed to steal one of Pansy's many books on Beauty Charms (on a side note, I made it look like Millicent's fault. You don't grow up in Slytherin for nothing), so I found pretty soon just the things I needed. In no time, 'she' had no longer silvery-blonde, straight, silky hair, but chestnut, curly one. 

And that left me with the eyes to 'adjust'. I suppose I did what I did because I couldn't stand to look at them any longer, the way they were. I charmed them black. You'd think black was rather dramatic to go with chestnut, curly hair, but it wasn't so. It gave 'her' a very distinctive appearance, strange, but at the same time fascinating. Or so I thought, but I might have been biased. 

Anyway, I had only about half an hour left to find Potter (those charms hadn't been exactly a walk in the park), so I had to hurry. I had no idea where to start looking, so I figured I should first check the spot where we'd collided, not very long ago. I don't know what possessed me to change my mind midway, and stir left instead of right. If I'd believe in guardian angels, I could say mine did it, but, as I don't, I'll blame everything on a lucky coincidence. 

As I turned around another corner, a voice out of nowhere questioned me.

"Where do you think you're going?"

~``~

It was time for the charade to begin. 

"Hello, Harry," I said, cursing myself for the slight hesitation in pronouncing Potter's first name. He didn't notice, to my relief.

"You know me?" he looked at me – at 'her' suspiciously. "Oh," his face lit with understanding, "how stupid of me! Of course you know me. Everybody in this bloody world does," he continued, and I don't know whether he realized he was rubbing his scar. But was it my imagination, or Wonder Boy had sounded bitter and resentful this time? Almost like he didn't enjoy all the attention he was getting.

"But I still don't know who you are." He had an expectant look. I figured a bit of a dramatic performance was in order.

"Oh, I don't know, Harry Potter. Maybe I'm no one. Maybe I'm an illusion. Or maybe I'm not. What do you think, then? I could be your queen of the twenty-fifth hour," 'she' responded with 'her' annoyingly clear voice, smiling at a temporarily rendered speechless Potter. 

The look on Potter's face was priceless at that point. He stared at 'her' like he had seen a ghost. Or a mad person. Okay, maybe I had overdone it a little. I wondered if he knew the story about the queen. Whatever the case, I hadn't expected to have such an easy job at confusing Potter with only some cheap ambiguous lines.

We stood there looking at each other for some very long seconds. He still said nothing. He did instead a thing that surprised me a bit. The Transfiguration classroom was nearby. He turned to the door and opened it.

"Come here, we're not safe on the corridor." 

We entered the classroom and Potter locked the door. I had to fight very hard not to laugh. If that idiot hoped he would get some tonight, he was in for a big surprise. I had to watch the time though. There was less than half of hour left before I would transform back.

"Malfoy could've bumped into us any moment out there," Potter explained. 

I felt like being hit by an avalanche. All in all, feeling hit by an avalanche was better than feeling hit by, let's say, a falling brick – because then I would've dropped dead instead of just freezing and Potter might have gotten a clue. Freezing on the spot was acceptable. My pulse accelerated madly. My mind worked with fervour. Did Potter suspected anything? How could he? Was that a trap? 

"He has an Invisibility Cloak, y'know," he continued. "I think he got it about a month ago and, ever since, there's not a single night when he's not out of bed, play with his new toy, the slimey bastard!"

I was very thankful right then for the tiny shred of control that never left me. I'm positive that my face didn't show the least sign of the panic I was beginning to experience, but it was building inside me, ready to burst any time now. Not to mention that Four-Eyes had just called me a 'slimey bastard' and I simply couldn't take out my wand and curse his sorry arse into oblivion, like I my fingers urged me to do. But how came that Potter knew so well about the time I've got my Cloak and my nightly trips around the castle when I'd only run into him once and had no idea what he had been doing the other nights?

"He shouldn't be anywhere near right now!" Potter assured 'her'. "I know because I have this map who shows you the whereabouts of everybody inside this castle! I saw him on it earlier. Look," to my horror, he took a folded parchment out of his pocket, "all you have to do is tap it three times like this and say 'I solemnly- "

I knew I had to do something or I'd be discovered. Wrong, actually. 'She' had to do something and 'she' did. Mind you, it was a really, really desperate situation. 'She' kissed Potter. 

By the way he reacted, he definitely hadn't been expected this. Hell, I hadn't been expecting this! Potter dropped the map on the floor and I took advantage of his momentarily distraction to send it with a well-placed kick straight to the other side of the room. Meanwhile, Potter was getting rather excited with the kiss, which was no big surprise. I was, leaving all fake modesty aside, quite a kisser, so 'she', of course, was a damn good kisser too. 

My purpose being achieved and the map having been sent out of Potter's reach, it was time for the kiss to end. And for me to get out of sight before I started transforming back. There's this thing for dramatic exits that runs in the family.

"Good night, Harry."

I took out my wand, pointed it to the door, whispered 'Alohomora' and I was gone. I started running down the corridors and, luckily, Potter didn't follow. I suppose he had been too shocked with the kiss. 

The kiss. I didn't want to think about it right now. I mean, I had been aware that, ultimately, it would've come to this, were my plan to be successful, but it wasn't supposed to happen on the very first night. I had my pride. 'She' wasn't meant to be a slut. And I didn't even want to question myself as to why I had been so eager to jump on Potter like I just had. Because it hadn't been me who jumped on Potter. It had been 'her'! And that made The Difference. Circumstances had been desperate and called for desperate actions. If only it hadn't been for that cursed map! I had to steal it from Potter as soon as possible, that much was self-understood. There wouldn't be any more encounters between him and 'her' as long as Potter had the map.

I reached the disused classroom precisely in time. Transforming back was draining enough, but not as painful as transforming forth. Maybe because the pain held something familiar now. I managed to go through the whole process a little more aware of myself, not surrendering to the pain as completely as before. It had still felt like I would have sold my soul to make it stop, but this time, at least, I would have negotiated my own terms of the deal.

My robes were all torn, as I didn't have time to charm them back to their regular size before transforming. This taught me a lesson: never again charm robes so tight. I didn't have so many pairs to waste and didn't want to be forced to write home for new ones… 

**Dear Mother, 

**An unfortunate series of accidents deprieved me of every single pair of robes you bought for me at the beginning of this school year. Please send new ones a.s.a.p. The Malfoy Family Pride is at stake.

**Your son (occasionally daughter),

**Draco**__

Definitely not an option.

Shaking off the thought, I realised that my eyes and hair were still the way I'd charmed them for 'her' use. I didn't want to see myself like this, so I pointed my wand to my head and quickly performed the 'Finite Incantatem'. Only then I went to the mirror. 'She' was gone. I was back. It was stupid, but seeing my real body made me feel ten times better. I know it was illogical, but somewhere in a small corner of my mind had lurked this fear that I'd be stuck as 'her' for eternity. 

I suddenly realized how tired I was. I wanted nothing more but to crawl to my bed and crash in. But there was another thing I had to take care of first. I had to return to the classroom where Potter had dropped the map. There was little hope he had left it there, but I had to try, even with the risk of running straight into him. 

Covered in my Invisibility Cloak, I was again standing near the Transfiguration classroom door. There was no sign of Potter as far as my limited five senses could tell. I entered and went straight to the corner where I knew I had sent the map. 

I couldn't believe my luck. It was still there, Gryffindor lack of focus be praised! I grabbed it and hurried back to the Slytherin dorms as fast as I could. Once there, I locked the map safely inside my trunk, then didn't waste any seconds and fell asleep. I don't remember having any dreams that night.

~``~``~


	3. Win Some, Lose Some

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humour

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N: ***…*/**…** are used for Italics. (**…** for longer fragments like dreams, letters, flashbacks.)

**III. **[Win Some, Loose Some]

When I woke up the next day, every aching bone of my body pleaded in favour of some more rest. Very convincingly.  I managed to drag myself out of bed by sheer power of will. 

On my way to breakfast, I ran into Pansy, who granted me a very Pansy sort of look – the kind of a look that could have induced me to believe I'd sprouted a Fluffy Pair of Bunny Ears over night, or something along those lines. Firstly, her mouth fell wide open and remained so just a second too long to not have been an act, then she covered it with both her hands, before dramatically dropping them again (mouth thanksfully closed this time), only to throw herself at me. I didn't take one single step back. And Gryffindors think they know anything about courage!

"Oh, Draco, you look sick, poor baby! Come, let me take you to the infirmary, Dray…" She was clinging to my arm.

I was not in the mood for Pansy. I think I told her to sod off or something of the kind. She didn't speak to me for a week, which was more than I could've expected or asked.

Potter turned out late for breakfast that morning. He looked like he had had very little sleep. There were black circles visible from behind his glasses and, call it a wild guess, he hadn't even bothered to comb his hair before leaving the dorms. He appeared very interested in people sitting at the other tables, and by 'people' I mean girls. Potter was looking for 'her'. If one could do such a thing as mentally rubbing his hands in a very malicious, fiendish-like manner, I was doing precisely that at the moment.

Goyle asked me why I suddenly looked so pleased. Damn, if Goyle, who wasn't exactly known for his abilities of perception, could tell I was pleased, I must have had a grin like a split watermelon all over my face! Which also explained why Potter, who, having run out of other options, was now checking the Slytherin table, gave me a strange look, like I was going crazy, stupid git! I told Goyle I'd just got a brilliant idea to make the Gryffindors' life miserable, and he was satisfied with my explanation. I had all the reasons to be satisfied as well. My plan was, so far, working better than expected (minus the unpleasantness of the trasformation itself, but that wasn't going to stop me). It was a flawless plan, after all. 'She' had made quite an impression on Potter. (He looked oh-so-devastated because he hadn't been able find 'her' at neither of the tables… Everybody, let's take out our tissues and wipe for broken-hearted Harry-sodding-Potter! Honestly.) Retrospectively, I believe it was the kiss that did it, but right then I preferred to block that particular thought. 

Yes, I had all the reasons to be satisfied. Quite unexpectedly and disconcertingly, I realised that I wasn't. Although, undoubtedly, Potter had lost the first round without even knowing it, I felt none of the warm satisfaction of victory one is to expect in such moments. No, all I could think was that it had been only the beginning and I was tired, so tired already… It crossed my mind that I could probably blame this unexpected 'moodiness' on having been in 'her' acursed body for a whole hour last night. It was just a vile side-effect. 

And it was only the beginning.

~``~

The day passed in a blur, like the many others that followed… but I anticipate. The day passed in a blur and, again, I found myself in the disused classroom that served as my place of transformation. I performed the same actions as the night before. The transformation was just as painful. It crossed my mind, while adjusting 'her' appearance, that me transforming into 'her' was more hurtful than 'her' transforming into me because I was unconsciousely fighting against it. I'd have to try loosening up next time. Really, really desire to be 'her'. Get in touch with my feminine self or something like that. Creepy to think about… Meanwhile, 'she' was back.

It didn't take as long as the previous night for me – 'her' to find Potter. Or, rather, for Potter to find 'her'. I went to the same place where we'd met before and, minutes later, he appeared, emerging from under his Cloak.

"I thought you were just an illusion!" 

No 'hello', Potter? Hadn't your Muggle family taught you manners? 

"The other night, I mean," he went on. "I thought I'd never see you again." 

He was relieved to see 'her', then. Pathetic, really, what one kiss could do to the famous Harry Potter.

"Well, I guess being here now means I'm not. An illusion," 'she' answered. Not particularily bright, not particularily commital.

Potter didn't say anything, but he advanced towards 'her'. His eyes unsettled me. There was something inside them, a mixture of pain, hope and other things I couldn't quite point out, that I haven't seen in any other pair of eyes before. I found myself thinking it made them look beautiful, the way a deep, dark water is beautiful when you look into it and know that only a step separates you from drowning, slowly and painfully, into the overwhelming beauty of it. 

That was when my Inner Voice of Wisdom should have kicked in and supply some sort of wise advice. Maybe something along the lines of 'You, Draco Malfoy, are in fucking deep shit! Get your sorry arse out of here before you sink in even deeper!' Well, it didn't. I like to think it didn't only because my Inner Voice of Wisdom would never say something as vulgar as that.

I didn't realize, until I felt the cold wall touching my back, that I'd been retreating while Potter advanced in my direction. I couldn't take my eyes from his. Maybe I wanted to drown. I didn't know and I hated not knowing. All I knew was that suddenly Potter's hand was touching 'her' face and it was like burning without a fire. I gasped and he retreated his hand quickly, like snake-bitten.

"I'm sorry. I… I needed to know you're real."

"I could still be a dream." I was choosing 'her' words very carefully. "A dream of yours. When you dream, your senses can be easily fooled. Maybe I feel real, but I'm not."

"So are you? Real?"

"I don't know," I responded, and I wasn't lying. "I guess it's up to you."

"Then I say you're real." He smiled, in a way I haven't seen anyone smiling before. Perhaps it had something to do with growing in a family of Death Eaters, but Potter's smile was the first childish smile I'd seen on other than a child's face. So trusting. So sincere. So stupid. I couldn't decide whether to like it or not. He was trusting 'her' with his heart too easily, without taking any precautions. It meant another round I had won, in the game Potter had no idea he was playing.

"And I think you should drop this funeral face," he continued in a sickening cheerful tone. "I don't think it really suits you. You should, y'know, laugh every now and then!"

Oh, that was so hilarious I could barely restrain myself to snort in his face! Harry Potter, the Boy Who'd Been Lately Doing Nothing But Sulking, of all the people, giving advice on laughing! Gryffindors and their sodding positivity. 

"I don't laugh," I said instead. 

"Oh, come on! I'm sure there's something that can cheer you up!"

"I didn't say I didn't have a sense of humour," I snapped without realizing. "Though it might be too subtle for simple minds. I simply don't laugh!"

Potter's cheerfulness faded. I liked him better that way. 

"Maybe we should be friends then. My other friends say I don't laugh either, not the way we used to laugh in the past… They just don't understand what it's like."

I let myself slip on the floor, back still propped against the wall.

"So tell me what it's like, then," I asked him, having no idea what we were talking about. "Maybe I'll understand."

Potter silently sat onto the floor, near me. He didn't say anything for a while.

"Do you have a name, anyway?" he finally broke the silence.

I expected questions of this kind, of course, but the time he chose to put this one took me by surprise. I had previously decided to give him a fake name, if asked. But right then, my lips acted on their own damn account. Or maybe I should call it a lucky moment of inspiration?

"I don't."

"You're playing games again!" His voice sounded slightly accusing.

I shook my head. 

"It's true. This girl standing here doesn't have a name. One day you'll understand." Though it'll be the worst day of your life when you do, Potter...

"All right." He didn't sound very convinced, but appeared to give up. "I have to call you some way, though. Let's see… Alice, Ana, Beatrice, Berta, Cristine, Daisy, Darla – "

"Stop it." I was horrified. "I don't like any of those names. They're so… common!"

"Oh, someone's a snob!" Potter chuckled. "Fine, you'll always be 'Mystery Girl' for me, then! Deal?" He extended his hand to me.

"Whatever." If that prevented him from asking more questions… I shrugged and took Potter's hand. It was too late to retreat when I finally realized what I was doing. Potter was touching me – 'her' for the second time that night. But I didn't felt as disgusted as I'd expected. Perhaps it was a good sign. I was learning to control myself. Because for the success of my mission, I'd eventually have to do more than merely touch Potter.

"Friends then, girl without a name?"

'Her' hand was still placed inside his. The events were unfolding in the right direction.

"So, what was that 'queen of the twenty-fifth hour' thing you mentioned last night?"

Oh. He wasn't supposed to remember that. I'd just got carried away a bit the other night, that was all.

"Just a silly bed time story."

"What does it say?"

That was annoying. Potter was annoying.

"Haven't gotten your share of bed time stories when little, Harry?"

"Actually." There was a slight pause. "No."

"Oh." It was my turn to pause. "I guess I'll tell it to you then. But it's kinda boring. If you fall asleep, I swear I'll never see you again."

It was fun, threating Potter like this. He simply nodded. 

"So…" I started, no very enthusiastically, "there was this young king that lived in a beautiful castle et caetera et caetera, and he had everything he could possibly want… wealth, fame, power, good looks, nice clothes, nice jewlery, nice women… er, you get the point, don't you?… and he thought he was happy– Look, it's _really_ boring, are you sure you want to hear it?" 

Potter nodded. I sighed.

"Then one night the king suddenly can't fall asleep. He tosses and turns in his bed until morning comes, but sleep refuses to come. He gets up… duties can't be neglected (don't ask me why he couldn't give them a kick, all-powerful as he was), and so on and so forth… Then he finally goes to sleep again. Big surprise, he can't fall asleep this time either. It goes on and on just the same for several nights, and he tries every potion and every spell, but nothing seems to work. So he starts walking through the castle at night… and here follow some completely meaningless details about his wanderings… In a nutshell it goes like this… 

"One night, he runs straight into a very beautiful and strange woman, whom he hasn't seen before (which should make him wonder about it, if you ask me, but he doesn't), and they start talking, and she makes time pass unnoticed, and the king finds himself enthralled... 

Potter listened, rather enthralled himself. 

"Anyway, you get the picture... Then, out of the sudden, she walks away and vanishes. Just like that. The king finds, to his amazement, that he is so sleepy he can barely stand on his feet. He falls asleep right there on the corridor, where the house-elves find him in the morning, causing, naturally, a big fuss about it, but he doesn't care. 

"Needless to say, the following night, he seeks the mysterious woman again. Again, time flows by, king's mesmerised, woman disappears. But this time the king notices something before falling asleep. The clock hanging on one of the walls has stopped at the exact time when he met her. He makes a mental note to have the device fixed first thing in the morning. The house-elves find him again sleeping on the floor, they fuss, he probably curses them, annoyed, then he remebers about the clock. The elves assure him the clock workes just fine and he sees for himself that they're right. So he decides he must have dreamed. 

"Anyway, history repeats the following night, and the next, so he comes to the mind-blowing conclusion that time somehow stops when the mysterious woman is around, like there's a twenty-fifth hour passing only for the two of them, while the rest of the world awaits frozen. Which is stupid, really, because there could have been a lot of other explanations, including the wicked house-elves palying tricks on him, and then, how does he know that the time spent with the woman measures up to *exactly* one hour… Er, that's not part of the story actually. Well, that's it."

"I liked it."

"I find it rather boring," I pointed out, again. 

"Are you sure there isn't more to it?" Did I mention that Potter was really, really annoying?

"I don't remember anything else." *Just bloody give it up!* I remember screaming in my head. It was just a stupid story!

"Maybe you were always falling asleep before the end."

"That's because it's boring!" I almost lost my temper on him.

"Maybe it wouldn't be if you knew the end?"

I sighed in exasperation. What was this thing Potter had for knowing the end? Time for a strategy change.

"So, how do you think it ends, Harry?"

"Er… they lived happily ever after?"

Which proves exactly what every Slytherin knows and no one else believes, namely, that Gryffindors possess no imagination at all. I snorted, just to show Potter my exact opinon on his guess.

"Well, do you have a better option?"

"How about, she's the malevolent ghost of a maid once deceived by one of the king's ancestors, now seeking vengeance, and one night she dumps him and the king goes mad and dies a miserable death alone?"

"Isn't that a bit over-dramatic?"

"Oh, whatever. Anyway I have to go now." I wondered if Potter saw the irony.

"Why?" There it was, the lost expression again. How could Potter be so stupid, I asked myself.

"Because, Harry, time doesn't stay still for us."

I told you, I have a penchant for Dramatic Exits.

~``~

**Dear son,

**I am writing to enquire about the 'extracurricular assignment' you have taken. Your mother and I are very proud of the work you are doing. We were hoping to receive more news from you since you've undertaken this particular task. We are truly disappointed that you didn't write to us sooner. I hope you will let us know how things are going at school. A letter a month should do very fine. Mother sends you kisses.

**Your father,

**Lucius**

Father can be very amusing without trying and, despite of what he likes to believe, about as subtle as a de-rooted Mandrake. But then, who needs subtlety when one can perform five different varieties of the Bone Breaking Spell?

**Dear Father,

**I am sorry I haven't written to you and Mother sooner. I've got completely absorbed in my 'assignment'. You know how hard I work to keep you satisfied. You'll be then very satisfied to find that I am making progress. I am confident that I will achieve my goal by the end of the year, as you expect me to. You'll receive a letter informing you on the matter every month starting form now. Tell Mother I kiss her back.

**Your son,

**Draco**

~``~

And thus the night encounters continued. We never bothered to set an hour, as it had been somehow implied that we would meet the same time as the night before. Potter became a living model of punctuality, I have to give him credit for that. I suppose it's written black on white (golden on red, or whatever), somewhere inside 'How To Be The Perfect Gryffindor – An Extended Guide': *A true Gryffindor never keeps a lady waiting_*_. That is, if such a thing exists. We, Slytherins, actually have a rule of that kind. *A true Slytherin never keeps a lady waiting*. It also says, *unless it serves him better otherwise*. But I'm digressing… To resume, never again did 'she' have to wait for Potter to appear. He was always there, in the empty Transfiguration classroom, sometimes covered in his Cloak and revealing himself only after being certain it was 'her'.

One night, it happened that I was terribly late, maybe more than an hour. I didn't actually expect to find Potter waiting, but he was there, with the same confused and pained expression on his face that he had worn on our second encounter.

"You're really late. Really, really late," he spoke, not actually accusing with his voice, but with his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said, and, to my surprise, I didn't have to pretend in order to sound apologetic. "You didn't have to wait for me. I wasn't expecting to find you here, as a matter of fact."

"I'll always wait for you." He wasn't looking at me anymore, but became very interested in the floor. "I think you've turned into my addiction," he smiled a miserable smile. "If you swear that you'll always come, I'll wait for you no matter what!" 

So pathetic, yet… He uttered the last sentence almost with anger and his eyes were so green and full of tears, that I couldn't do what I should've done, which was play with his emotions and torment him a bit before agreeing for the sake of appearences.  

"I swear," I whispered so faintly that I didn't think he'd hear. But he did.

"Thank you."

I don't remember how it happened so quickly. The next moment, Potter was hugging 'her' so tightly that I could barely breath. There hadn't been any more words uttered that night. Just a long, painful hour to count Potter's heartbeats next to mine.

And my Supposedly Wise Inner Voice was still playing dead.

~``~

The familiarity between Potter and 'her' steadily grew with every new encounter. Which was a good thing for my mission, because Potter was sharing more and more of himself and the bonds between him and 'her' were becoming more and more powerful. And when the time would come for those bonds to be severed, it would be the end for Harry Potter, mighty hero of the wizarding world. But on those nights, that time appeared so far and away.

We'd come to talk about everything and nothing. Potter used to tell me about how his days went, about classes, about his friends. Sometimes he talked about his childhood, nothing to envy there.  Not that I'd ever had this kind of feelings myself. Malfoys don't envy. But it was disturbing, really, to find out I knew in fact so little about Potter.

I was quite shocked, one night, when Potter insisted that Sirius Black had been innocent. Father never bothered to tell me about it. I had known, though, that Black had been Potter's godfather. Now I could also see the empty place his death had left inside his godson's soul.

I talked as well. Not about things that would've betrayed me, certainly, but about things I hadn't talked about to anyone before, which were, precisely for that reason, the only things I could freely speak about without the risk of somehow blowing my cover. At first, it was the only way to keep Potter talking, so that's why I did it. He was opening his heart and mind in front of 'her' and 'she' had to appear to be doing the same. I don't remember when chatting with Potter ceased to be a calculated act and became a necessity. Suddenly, I couldn't have shaken it even if I would've wanted to. I was also becoming 'addicted', as Potter had put it. And still, there was no sound of alarm ringing in my head. None of my plans had worked better, after all. 

~``~

One night, we'd come to talk about feelings and which one was the most powerful of them all. Well, what can I say, it had been a rather uneventful day and we were running out of conversation topics… Anyway, Potter, as the typical Gryffindor he was, insisted it was love. I sighed, somewhat exasperated, and proceeded to explain why, more precisely, love was only an illusion designed for fools.

"You see, Harry, they say true love is impossible to define, because you have to feel it yourself and then the feeling is too exquisite, too perfect et caetera et caetera, to describe it in words. I say that is only a very convenient excuse to avoid describing something that doesn't actually exist. People are so keen to fall in love that they often mistake other feelings for it, and thus this – this myth that love exists, goes on." It was that plain and simple. I was disappointed that Potter didn't seem to grasp it.

"I can't believe you actually believe that! Of course love exists!" he jumped to defend his silly idea.

"How can you tell for sure, then? Have you felt it?"

Potter looked a bit unnerved. "Well," he appeared to be considering, "I love my parents -"

"They're dead." I had to be cruel to prove my point. Potter's eyes were dangerousely close to tears, but I kept talking. "What you say it's love for your parents, is only need for something you've never had. A family. The need to feel protected, safe," I shrugged. "Which only proves that love's an illusion. You've created a perfect image of them in your mind and now you're feeding this need you have for them on it."

"I loved Sirius, too," he whispered. "He wasn't an illusion."

"No, but an extention to an illusion. He was a substitute for you parents. Your only real link to them."

"That's not true! He was my friend, too!" he protested, then continued. "I love my friends. Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, Remus. And then… er… I had this thing for Cho two years ago…"

Oh, how could I have forgotten about *that*? Potter and Chang's so-called love story had been the laughing stock of the Slytherin common room for a good many month after if ended. (There had also been lot debating on whether you could end something that hadn't even begun properly.)

"Really, Harry, even you know it was just a crush. As for you friends… I suppose that's true, in a way. You have feelings for them, but why call that love? Loyalty would be more appropriate. Trust. Similar views. The way you've come to know each other. That's what bonds you to them. Love's so ellusive that you can mistake it for many things. Friendship is one of them." I vaguely remember questoning myself at that point whether hate was another.

"You don't believe in love, but you believe in friendship, then?" He sounded surprised.

"I believe that certain people have affinities for each other and a bond can be formed between them based on that. Call it friendship if you must give it a name! But I don't trust it. Any bond can be broken." And you should remember that, Potter!

"So what are we, then, Mystey Girl, if you don't trust friendship?"

"I don't think there's a name for what we are. You've said it yourself a while ago. You've grown addicted to me. We're two people with an addiction." And as much as I hated it, it was true.

~``~

However, our discussions didn't get that philosophical all the time. Mostly, it was meaningless chat, and I liked it better that way.

"So do you have a favourite colour, Mystery Girl?" Potter asked, for lack of a better question, at one point during another of our nightly conversations.

Officially, any true Slytherin's favourite colours were green and silver. But, being 'her', I could tell the truth.

"Actually, I don't." As Potter didn't seem very convinced, I felt I needed to explain myself. "Well, you see, when it comes to clothing, I look good in black, silver and blue. However, outside clothing, I don't like these colours. I like crimson, but I look absolutely horrendous in it. So it can't be my favourite colour, either."

He started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" I was offended.

"You. I've never realised you're so -" He was experiencing another fit of laughter, "- vain." 

Said Harry Potter, the Boy Who Looked Like a Complete Mess. And he had the nerve to call someone who actually had the decency to care about looks, 'vain'! I couldn't help bursting into laughter.

Potter suddenly stopped and looked at me slightly surprised. And strangely pleased.

"What?" I asked.

"I thought you didn't laugh." He grinned at 'her'.

Damn, he was right, I didn't laugh on impulse! I didn't loose control! Except, I had just done precisely that.

"It was an accident," I replied dryly.

~``~``~


	4. The Meaning of Hate

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humor

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N:** The symbols *…* / **…** are used instead of Italics (**…** is for longer fragments like letters, flashbacks).

A Flawless Plan

by Drea Leeways

IV. [The Meaning of Hate]

"You never speak about your parents," Potter started one night. There was an unasked question in his voice.

I guess the boy was somewhat obsessed with the topic, as he had never come to know his own parents. Of course, I didn't tell him that. I sat silent for several moments, thinking what was there to be said about Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

"My mother is very beautiful and my father is very ambitious." Yes, that covered it up pretty well!

"So you do have parents!" Potter exclaimed with an enthusiasm I couldn't really understand.

"Well, obviously, I didn't fall out of the skies!" I replied in what was meant to be a deadly sarcastic tone, but 'her' voice simply refused to sound like that, and managed instead only a slight note of amusement.  "You know, it usually takes a man and woman doing, um, stuff, for a child to be born." 

Potter sulked. "I don't need you to give me a lecture about sex, Mystery Girl!"

"You're the one acting surprised I had parents," I shrugged. "I thought you needed to be explained the process." And then my Inner Voice finally reacted, pointing out that I'd just teased Potter, of all the people. Which of course, I hadn't!!! It was part of 'her' role. It wasn't me.

"Well, I don't need lessons! And, anytime you want proof about that, I'm available!" 

Look at that, Wonder Boy was growing a spine! Well, Potter, keep your hands to yourself for now!

"I think I prefer this relationship platonic, thank you very much," 'she' retorted. "For now." That was to keep him wondering.

Potter didn't seem in the least disturbed by 'her' words. The bastard was smirking like he knew something I didn't. It was both unsettling and captivating. I'd never seen the Potter, the epitome of nicety and perfection, acting like this. If that was all my doing, and not one minute I doubted it was, then I felt like I had to congratulate myself. The discussion wasn't over, however. Potter also had other things on his mind.

"If you have parents, then you must have a name!" he spoke triumphantly.   

"I told you already, I don't."

"Okay, you don't have a first name, for a twisted reason I don't understand, but you must have a family name!"

Oh yes, Potter, that's easy, I'm a Malfoy.

"I do, but there's no way I'm letting you know it! If you want this… this thing we have to continue, then stop asking me these questions!"

"So you have a dark secret, Mystery Girl," Potter chuckled. It was all a joke to him. All for the worst, because my 'dark secret' was a hundred shades darker than he could possibly imagine, the idiot! How I hated him for the rest of the night!

~``~

"I've lost the Marauders' Map," Potter said one night instead of greeting, looking like a child deprived of his favourite toy. "I told you about it the first night we met, remember? That's when I lost it."

I didn't understand why he was telling about this now. Perhaps he didn't have anything better to talk about. Potter's never struck me as a brilliant conversationalist.

"I remember, yes," I answered, "the map that is supposed to show you the whereabouts of anyone inside the castle." Only if I'd known how to make it work! For, you can imagine, I had tried to use it, but all I managed had been getting insulted by the damn piece of scroll.

"It belonged to my father and his friends. I'm really stupid for loosing it like that!"

I didn't have any comment on that.

"I wonder who found it, that night…" he continued. "I dropped it right here in this classroom, when you… when we…"

I don't think I'd ever seen Potter's cheeks flushed with anything but anger before that night. But right then, if my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, he was doing precisely that and he wasn't angry. He was embarrassed. I found it oddly fascinating.

"When we kissed," I finished the sentence for him. And I knew it was then and there it was supposed to happen again. The relationship between Potter and 'her' had evolved to the point where kissing was almost self-understood. And it would give me even more power over him. Yes, 'she' had to kiss Potter again that night, but it wasn't to happen like the first time. This time, Potter would have to make the first move. Which he would, if he were at least half as brave as made out to be. Which he did.

I had to remain calm. Potter's lips were burning. I had to be in control, of myself and of him. 

Potter's body was so close. But it was all part of the plan. I had to do it because it was part of the plan and I had to do it exqusitely. *I* wasn't kissing Potter. 'She' was kissing Potter. *I* wasn't allowed to *feel*. 

I was cold. 

Cold and detached. 

I managed to separate myself from my body's actions and shut the voice that was screaming inside my head to stop because it was all an incredible mistake. Because it wasn't. After all, it wasn't like I felt something, like I wanted it or enjoyed it. It was simply part of the plan. 

It was strange to kiss with girl lips. Even stranger, to kiss Potter with girl lips. I hadn't had the time to properly register it the first time when it happened. 'Her' mouth was tinier and fit for submission rather than for domination. And between Potter and myself, everything had been and was a matter of domination. Yet, domination comes in many forms. One can subdue by pretending to be subdued.

While 'she' kissed him, _I_ concentrated on the technique. There had been no random gesture in this kiss, no involuntary sound, gasp or moan from 'her' part, all had been calculated to give the full appearance of perfection. And as far as the technique was concerned, it had been a perfect kiss. First, only a slight touch, lips brushing, then slightly parting. Gasping, hesitating, trembling. Tasting, caressing, teasing. Inviting, seducing, promising more. And then slowly retreating, playfully, like separating was only a joke, because there was no way the two mouths didn't belong together. 

"You have to breathe, Harry!" 

Potter was definitely not an experienced kisser. His mouth opened for air the second 'her' lips left his.  

"Wow!" He smiled. So 'she' smiled back. Sadly, Potter knew nothing other than loosing.

There was, however, something that bothered me and I couldn't put my finger on it. Then I remembered. Before kissing, Potter had involuntarily pointed out that I – 'she' was the main suspect in the map's disappearance. Lucky me that Potter was such a charming, unsuspecting fellow! All I had to do was to make sure he would remain this way as far as 'she' was concerned. The situation called for some distraction. And, no, not *that* kind of distraction!

"Harry, you know, about your map…" I started.

"What? You know anything?"

"Um," 'she' had to sound uncertain, "I remember you said that Malfoy was around and had an Invisibility Cloak. What if he took it?"

That was so priceless. I almost felt sorry that Potter couldn't see the irony of it!

"That bastard! I'm sure he did it now!"

"Why don't you try asking him to give it back?" 'she' suggested. Oh, I couldn't wait to see that!

"I don't think that even Malfoy is so stupid as to admit having my map if I-  What's wrong? What did I say?"

Potter, of all the people, calling me, stupid? I wanted to punch his face right there on the spot. I believe my expression betrayed something of this imperious desire. However, I didn't punch Potter, but I managed to recompose myself.

"Nothing, you didn't say nothing. It's only that, I've realized it's time to go." Which was true.

So I said 'good night' and left.

~``~

I didn't expect Potter to actually ask me about the map. After a week or so passed without him making any attempt in that direction, I was getting pretty sure he never would. But, like always, the boy was full of surprises.

"Malfoy!" 

I was on my way to Potions, therefore Crabbe and Goyle weren't accompanying me. I froze when I heard Potter calling my name. I know what you think, but it wasn't out of fear. Perhaps there had been a time I had feared Potter (there, I don't even care about my pride and I'm admitting it!) but that time was long gone. No, I froze because, for the first time after our last fight, Potter was actually speaking to me again, to the 'real' Draco Malfoy, I mean. 

"Malfoy, stop!"

I stopped and watched him catching up. He looked so different in the daylight, his features twisted in displeasure, his eyes contemptuous and full of hate. Or maybe that was simply the effect _I_ had on him. It almost hurt, for some reason. I chased that thought away.

"What do you want, Potter?"

"No clever remark, today, Malfoy? What happened to your pretence of being spiritual?"

"Clear the way, Potter," I replied on a dull tone. "Whatever you want, I don't have it!" 

I didn't want him anyway near me. I was cursing myself for what 'she' had done that night, for convincing him I had the map. So I guess that's why I didn't realize what I'd said until it was too late. Potter was already eyeing me suspiciously.

"How do you know I want something from you? And how come you're so sure you don't have what I want?"

It was his last words that made me become irrational, a fact for which I hated myself and him passionately for the next several hours. I slammed my fist right into Potter's face, with a power I had no idea I possessed. Next thing I knew was that Potter was lying on the floor, bleeding. I wanted to check if he was all right, but he was faster and tripped me, making me fall next to him.

Neither of us had the power to stand up. I rolled over Potter and grabbed the neck of his robes. It was in my intention to crush his head on the floor, but suddenly I became aware of how close we were and how familiar it felt. My anger resurfaced with renewed strength, yet all I could do was grip his robes even tighter, my hands and whole body shaking. Potter's face had gone all white, but I don't think he was afraid of me and what I might have done to him. Coming to know him like I did after all those night encounters, I'd say he never thought me, Draco Malfoy, capable of such reactions before, and was appalled by the mere realization of the fact. I didn't care what he thought. I wanted to be left alone. 

"Just. Go. Back. To. Ignoring. Me. Potter!" I spoke very slowly, not releasing the grip a single bit. My hands refused to let hold of him or stop shaking. 

I don't know what might have happened if things had continued this way. Maybe we'd have killed each other. Maybe it would have been better if we had. But right then, Granger appeared.

"Oh my God, Harry! Malfoy, you scumbag, let go of him!"

Her shrill voice awoke me to reality. This was school. Anytime, a teacher could have appeared and given us detention for fighting in the corridors. Well, at least, we hadn't used magic, had we?

I stood up, trying to clear the dust and blood of my robes with a quick charm, but I was in no state to performe charms. Before Granger arrived to help Potter stand up, I was already entering the Potions classroom, just in time to avoid being late. 

~``~

That night, Potter looked really bad. How come the idiot didn't go to Pomfrey to fix him? 

For the sake of appearances, 'she' had to inquire about what had happened to him.

"I had a fight with Malfoy. I guess I deserved it! He tried to warn me to stay out of the way," he explained, in a gloomy voice.

I couldn't say anything. Instead, I touched his face where the impact with my fist earlier had placed an ugly contusion.

"Does it hurt?" 

Shit, why did I care?

"Not if it's you who touches it."

I had a mad urge to laugh until I couldn't breathe, to laugh without feeling happy, without feeling amused, to laugh because it was the only thing I could do to drive away the confusion in my head and the weight upon my chest. But I couldn't laugh and my world was spinning. Potter's voice reached me and it sounded like it came from miles away.

"Are you all right?" He was actually worried.

I didn't answer. I looked at the boy in front of me and felt the unstoppable need to kiss him. My heart contracted violently, so violently that it almost left me unable to breathe. I had this stupid idea that, once our lips would touch, the world would stop spinning and everything would fall back into place again. 

I was so wrong. My lips were once again over his and their familiar warmth made me dizzy. And this time I was drowning, not in his beautiful, darkened eyes, but in the taste of his mouth, in the boiling blood I could feel rushing under his skin, in every breath of his that was perfectly synchronized with mine.

'She' had kissed Potter on quite enough occasions before. It was, as I said, part of the plan. But this time something was different. And completely wrong. I suppose it took me so long to realize because my mind refused to register it. This time, it was not 'her' kissing Potter. This time, it was me, still in 'her' body, but nonetheless me.

I became horrified as realization hit me. Stop, I needed to stop. And think. Stop and think. It wasn't too late if I could stop right then. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't break the kiss. My mind was rebelling against my body every time Potter's mouth over and inside mine sent shivers through my skin. It was a battle lost from the start.

Out of the sudden, Potter pulled away. "Oh, God! What have I done? I didn't mean it, please, stop, please!" 

Only then I realized I was shaking and had tears in my eyes, damn the girl and her body, and damn the way it made me so weak and pathetic! Potter was standing inches away from me, pale and wearing a panicked expression on his face, not daring to touch me again.

"I'm sorry, please, please don't do that! I won't kiss you if you don't want me too!"

But that was precisely it. I wanted him to. The shaking intensified. He took a step back.

"Don't," I managed to utter. "Stay with me."

He looked at me with disbelief, but closed the space between us again. Hesitantly, he put his arms around me and I buried my head into his shoulder because it felt like the right thing to do, although it was definitely wrong. I lost track of time.

When I became aware of myself again, I realized it was late, very late. Potter had fallen asleep and I was still clinging to him, both of us having slid onto to floor. This was madness! I would transform back any moment! I had to go!

Disentangling myself from Potter, I went to the door and opened it. He woke up and gave me a lost look.

"It's not your fault!" I whispered to him, instead of 'good night', not knowing what else to say.

"Wait," he called for me, but I didn't stop. I began running down the corridor and turned right, to the place where I had hidden my Invisibility Cloak. I had been doing this as a measure of precaution ever since the second encounter with Potter, but he hadn't been trying to follow me until then. Hearing his steps coming my way, I threw the Cloak over myself. Potter almost touched me in his rush, and then I saw him disappearing around another corner. 

I had been lucky to get out of that classroom in time. Barely had Potter disappeared from sight that I felt I was beginning to transform back. I re-became Draco Malfoy, right there on the cold and dirty floor of the corridor.

~``~

Before the dreadful night when *I* kissed Potter, I had always believed I knew the meaning of hate. It turned out that I didn't. 

When I woke up the following day, my entire body was aching and I had a foul taste in my mouth. I stood up, feeling weak and nauseated, and something, like a wave of coldness, brushed through my skin. Hate. I needed to hate, something, someone, everything. 

Splendid weather outside. My mind registered it almost automatically. And hated it just the same. I glanced around my room like I was there for the very first time in my miserable life. How come I'd never realized how much I hated this shity, crammed, damp shack they called a Prefect's dormitory? I headed to the bathroom, thinking that a shower would make me feel better. It didn't. I simply hated the noise of the water falling over my head and down to my body. Come to think about it, I hated my body as well. My body that had betrayed me so idiotically last night. I returned to my room and grabbed a clean pair of robes. It usually took me some time to dress, as I was not indifferent to my external appearance. That day, however, it was much easier, because I discovered I didn't care which set of robes I would be wearing. I hated each and every one of them with equal intensity and without discrimination.

It was Saturday (and I hated it, of course), so not many people had woken up that early. It had been a good thing for them, because they consequently avoided a chance encounter with me, Draco Malfoy, who was currently hating everybody. I sat down at the Slytherin table as far as I could from the other few people that were sharing it. I hated the table, the Hall, the dratted ceiling, the walls, the windows, I hated the plate in front of me, the glass full of pumpkin juice- why did it always have to be pumpkin juice, how I hated it and it made me sick! I hated the fork in my hand and the knife beside my plate, and I hated the food, and I couldn't touch a single piece of my breakfast, though my stomach was aching with hunger, but I hated it so much that I found an odd satisfaction in starving myself. My hand clutched more tightly the fork and I scratched the surface of the table, hating, even as I did so, the tormented sound of ripped wood. 

I suddenly felt claustrophobic. The Great Hall wasn't 'great' enough for how much I hated. My head felt like exploding. Breathe. I needed to breathe. I added a new item on the rather extensive Things I Hated List: people who bloody stared. I stood up and I think I recall cursing them in a very foul manner before storming out of the Great Hall. 

I hated Life, it was that plain and simple. Because she really was a bitch. Have you ever wondered if Life is really the nasty, revengeful entity she is made out to be? Because the answer is definitely yes. My punishment for calling her a bitch was so prompt that, under normal circumstances, I would have been impressed. That was, if I hadn't been too busy hating everything and everyone.

Exiting the Great Hall, I ran – because Life was a bitch and she hated me in return – into Potter, from all the people. I hated Potter. No, wait, I don't think I've enforced that enough. I HATED Potter. I hated his ugly pair of glasses, his stupid, messy, impossible black hair, his much too overrated scar and, above all, I hated how the bastard kissed 'her' and made *me* loose my minds.

It was then when I realized that, most of all, I truly hated myself with passion.

~``~

**Dear Father,

**I hope you and mother are well. My 'assignment' is going as planned. I've decided to stay here, at Hogwarts, for the winter holidays, and dedicate every spare moment to it. With so much extra effort I'm putting into it, I expect you, Father, to be very pleased of 

**Your son,

**Draco**__

~``~``~


	5. Collateral Benefits

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humor

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N:** The symbols *…* / **…** are used instead of Italics (**…** is for longer fragments like letters, flashbacks).

A Flawless Plan

by Drea Leeways

V. [Collateral Benefits]

"You're silent tonight."

There was an unasked question in Potter's voice. Funny how there always seemed to be unasked questions when it came to him. Well, damn Potter and his worries, I told myself. I didn't need anyone, much less Potter, to feel worried about me. But he wasn't worried about me, actually. He was worried about 'her'. In which case, Potter, I have news for you! 'She' kind of… died. You're stuck with me now, except that you don't know this! But some day you will and it will be the worst of your life!…

That was the night when I took two very important decisions, concerning my outcome, Potter's outcome and, most importantly, the outcome of my mission. 

One. If I was to hate myself for the rest of my life, I might as well make the best of it in the process.

I slowly leaned over and reached for Potter's lips. I wanted to own them, make them burn and ache with the touch of my own, then heal, melt into them and forget. The violence of the kiss startled Potter. 

"Harry, my love, be still," I said in 'her' mellifluous, childish voice. "I'm not gonna break you!…" Oh, but I will… I moved my lips from his mouth and started to place rough kisses on his neck. I could feel him shivering under my breath. Then the next thing I was aware of was Potter's tongue into of my mouth and I abandoned myself to the unearthly sensation I was experiencing. And then, he was whispering something into my ear but I wasn't listening.

Two. I would carry on with my mission, no matter what. I was doomed to fall and break, and so was Potter. Not because it was Father's wish, not because it was what He-Who-Fucked-With-People's-Lives had demanded, but simply because there was no turning back now, for neither me, nor him. 

I searched his lips once more. Only when our mouths connected and every breath of mine became his, and every breath of his became mine, only then I felt somewhat released from my hate. It didn't disappear, but, rather, it was consumed in our kisses, and I knew that Harry felt it too, and, unlike me, he didn't understand.

"You're making me loose my minds," he said darkly, between two kisses, while we were recapturing our breath.

"I've already lost mine, so that only makes us even," I whispered, biting his lower lip provocatively. But he pushed me away gently.

"I want to tell you something. I wanted to for a long time now."

I felt the sudden need to sit down, as an incredible feeling of nausea captured my stomach. Surely, the idiot wasn't going to declare his undying love, or something of that sort?

"I thought I was going to die at the end of this year."

I felt released. It didn't sound like a love declaration. Or else Potter was doing a very poor, uninspired work at choosing his words. I looked at him expectantly and he continued.

"You probably think I'm talking nonsense. But, you see, I used to believe that Voldemort would kill me when this year would be over."

"Most of the would fear that." Honestly, Potter! "Nobody's completely safe from him," I pointed out matter-of-factly. Not even his devoted Death Eaters, not even Father. Not even myself, were I to fail. And try to remember that, Draco Malfoy!

"You don't understand," he said, sounding disappointed. "But you will, soon enough."

His voice had got hoarse at this point. He cleared his throat before continuing.

"There was a prophecy made years before my birth. A prophecy Voldemort had found about." He paused. "A prophecy which stated that only one of us can live. That it is I and only I who can defeat him." He made a brief pause. "Or get killed in the attempt."

And the last piece of the puzzled finally fell into place. Father's letter, my mission, Harry's change of attitude, Harry's words and hollow laughter, one day, outside the Potions classroom after we'd fought… A time so distant, it could've been from a different life. 

I suddenly realized I hated He-Who-Would-Make-Me-Die-A-Painful-Death-Were-I-To-Betray-Him as well. Because he would kill Harry. Because Harry was perhaps meant to suffer, like me, but not get killed. He was meant to get messed-up like I had, but not to be put out of his misery with the quick green flash of an Avada Kedavra. Yet that was precisely what was going to happen. When the time would come for him to fight, he would be too broken to care. And I was doing my part.

"I don't want this bloody choice. It's not even a choice! It hadn't been fair it was me, I thought when they told me," Harry meanwhile spoke unperturbed, not looking at me, but at the shadows on the most distant of walls. 

"It hadn't been fair," he continued, and I could feel his anger raising through his heated skin, "that they didn't even bothered to let me know until the end of my fifth year here. It hadn't been fair that my family died, that Sirius died, that all the people I cared about almost died, at one point or another, because Voldemort wanted me! I hadn't even known! And now that I do, it's not fair that I have to live knowing that I'LL die and everybody's hopes will die with me! I don't want this responsibility! I don't want it!" 

His voice had been gradually rising, without him noticing it, until the point he was yelling. 

I've never known how to soothe. It was probably the thing my former role would have demanded at that precise moment, but I wasn't playing 'her' anymore. 'She' would have had to soothe Harry, but _I_ wasn't going to. It's not like I was his mother or his sodding guardian angel! I was merely the one to deliver his head on a plate to the Dark and Evil One. 

"I'm not strong enough to fight Voldemort. I know it. I've survived until now, but what if I won't, next time? I dream about it, this 'next time', over and over again, night after night. That's why I started sneaking out of bed in the first place. I didn't want to fall asleep, I couldn't let myself fall asleep! Can you imagine how it feels, dying in a different way every night, again and again, and knowing you've failed everyone by dying? That they're condemned because of you?"

He stopped, almost out of breath. 

"There is only one way Voldemort would kill you. And that is Avada Kedavra." Really, I didn't believe the Dark One would have the patience to wait for Potter to die by Cruciatus, appealing as that might be to his corrupted mind, so I was telling the truth. "So at least, you shouldn't worry about ways to die."

He looked at me quite surprised, even shocked. I suppose 'she' had sounded a bit unsympathetic.

"Yes, you're right," he shook his head, smiling a wry smile, "I shouldn't worry about ways to die. But, you see, right now I don't want to die. I never did, but, before, I had come to accept it."

"Before what?" I asked, my lips trembling a bit, probably with the long time that had passed since they had parted from Harry's skin.

"Before you," he responded in a slightly incredulous voice, like I'd asked a stupid question, like the answer was obvious and self-understood.

~``~

Late on the same night, I sat in my bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to sleep. It wasn't an unusual occurrence. I didn't know whether I had the Transjuice Potion to blame for my insomnia, or whether it was Potter's fault for claiming my thoughts so completely that I could hardly get myself to rest.

But that night I had a lot more than the usual to think about. Potter and his stupid trust in 'her'. Potter and his devotion for 'her' so great that it had made him want to fight He-Who-Sensible-People-Didn't-Dare-To-Oppose instead of lying down and die! Which only meant I had miserably failed in my mission. 

Or maybe not. 

If 'she' had come to mean that much for him, 'she' was the key to his destruction. No, my flawless plan was going as well as always, after all. All I had to do was wait for the right time and do the right thing. Do what was expected of me. And, in the meanwhile, enjoy all the collateral benefits that presented.

~``~

The Christmas break was fast approaching. Everybody was tired and they didn't pay much attention to classes anymore. One day, during Transfiguration, McGonagall announced we would be studying Feature Changing Spells for that class. She was quite impressed when I turned my eyes black and then back to their original colour several times without effort. (Practice does make perfect, I guess.) She even awarded ten points to Slytherin for that.

Pride is a dumb thing. I was so happy with the impression I had made during Transfiguration, that I stupidly agree to perform the charm again in the corridor when Crabbe asked me to. He and Goyle seemed to find my eyes changing colour extremely funny. 

Then Potter showed up. Ah, the look on his face when he saw my eyes! Surprise, confusion, anger. He dropped his books and stood there petrified, while Weasley and Granger were making a big fuss around him. It was of no use that I quickly muttered the 'Finite Incantatem' and the black eyes were gone in a second. Potter had seen them. Maybe he believed he'd started hallucinating, I don't know. All I could tell looking at his face was that he didn't understand how 'her' eyes could fit so well on my face.

And when Potter doesn't understand something, he goes chasing after the answer. In this case, it meant chasing after me. I have no idea how he got rid of his friends so quickly. After five minutes, I was on my way to History of Magic, when I had the strange feeling I was being followed. I stopped, turned around and Potter nearly crashed into me.

"Watch it, Potter!" 

Crabbe and Goyle had already assumed their usual threatening pose.

"I need to talk to you, Malfoy!" It sounded like an order. Some nerve Potter had!

"Let me see," I pretended to consider. "No!" And I turned around to leave. That's when he grabbed me by the back of my robes.

"Oh, no you're not turning your back on me, Malfoy!"

"Go to hell, Potter!" I glared at him.

"No thanks! I'd rather stick around and torment you!" he glared in return.

Crabbe and Goyle were on their way to trashing him. "Leave!" I ordered and they obeyed.

"I'm not skipping class for *you*, Potter!" I warned him.

"I don't care about your fucking class, Malfoy! You're coming with me! Now!" 

"Potter, people are staring," I pointed out, trying to awake some sense in him. He apparently didn't care, because he literally dragged me right under their noses all the way to a deserted corridor.

"What kind of sick game do you think you're playing, Malfoy?" he asked, looking straight into my eyes.

"Funny thing for you to say, Potter, I was going to ask you the same. I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied, trying to remain calm and not lowering my gaze.

"Don't fuck with me, Malfoy!" He advanced towards me, wand pointed to my face. "I'm talking about this."

I could feel the familiar sting in my temples and I knew, without needing to look into a mirror, what he had done. My eyes were black again. Potter lowered his wand and stared into my eyes, fascinated. I started to have troubles breathing, as I became suddenly very aware of the closeness between our bodies. And Potter was looking at me in a way he had never done before. Not with contempt, not with hate, not with disgust, but enraptured, utterly and completely enraptured. Like he sometimes looked at 'her'.

That was the moment when I lost the last shred of sanity I might have possessed. Potter's face was so close and his eyes were subduing me, making me feel again the desperate need to drown into their bewitching, gloomy, deadly beauty. Without thinking clearly, because thinking clearly would have been too painful right then, I extended my hand to his face and slowly took off his glasses. I couldn't bare to have anything between myself and those eyes that claimed my every thought, my every breath, my every heartbeat. My entire being. That made me willing to give myself up without a fight. 

Potter didn't protest at my actions. While I was loosing mine, his breath accelerated. Fragments of images, sensations, ideas, memories were suddenly rushing through my mind in a complete disorder. Out of this madness of thoughts, one eventually surfaced and engulfed the others, because it seemed to make such perfect sense at that point. Suddenly, I wanted to drive Potter mad, to make him experience my own painful confusion, wonder what was real and what was not, question all he'd believed and known until then. Question himself about me, like I was questioning myself about him.

Slowly recapturing my breath, I placed a hand upon the back of his neck and drew him closer. His eyes widened in surprise, not leaving mine, but he didn't react or push me back. I dropped his glasses on the floor, and they broke, but he didn't seem to notice. I ran my other hand through his hair and finally kissed him. 

Kissing and feeling Potter with _my_ actual lips and body had been unexpected. I hadn't taken into account the things this kiss would do to me. My blood accelerated, boiling with anger, no, with something more powerful than anger, like there was fire, instead of liquid running through my veins. And that was just the least embarrassing of my reactions, but I didn't care I was making a fool of myself, and I didn't care whether Potter realised, due to our proximity, that it wasn't my wand pressed into his thigh, but – to use a fascinatingly cheap euphemism – my, ahem, 'other' wand. I didn't care about anything but Potter's taste in my mouth.

It simply drove me crazy how Potter kissed *me*, and how different it was from him kissing 'her'. Because he did kiss me back. I must have been as shocked as himself. He kissed me with a mixture of urgency, not-understanding and fear. His lips trembled and I could tell that he was scared, not of me (he had never been scared of me), but of himself and what he was doing. He suddenly closed his eyes and it made me angry. I wanted him to look at me, to know and understand it was me who made him shiver so uncontrollably, to consume so helplessly and hurt so deeply. And once he understood, I wanted to make him loose his senses so completely that the only way for him to breathe would be through our mouths eagerly connected, and the only way for him to taste would be through my tongue that tasted him in return. I wanted to make him sink so deeply that the only thing for him to hear would be his own heartbeats, echoing in my ears, and the only thing for his skin to feel would be my own skin, and the only way for him to see would be by locking his eyes with mine and never look away. I wanted – no, I *needed* him to open his damn eyes and see me!

It was time to put my hands at a better use. Not one second breaking the kiss, I let them slid over his body, exploring. He opened his eyes instantly, looking frightened again. I didn't stop. There was something painfully enticing in that look that made me never want to stop. The slight reluctance and his involuntary gasp when I slid my tongue inside his mouth and pull his hips against mine made him taste so absolutely delicious that I my knees almost gave in. 

I was the one, though, who broke the kiss. Potter's cheeks were flushed and he was breathing hard. I, of course, knew only too well that kissing tended to have that particular effect on him. More surprisingly, I was breathing hard as well, and, by the way my face was burning, I assumed it was as flushed as his. I had to recompose myself quickly if I still wanted to be in control of the situation. 

Taking some steps away from Potter, I used my wand to return my eyes to their natural colour. Potter was staring at me (well, he mostly stared *through* me, to tell the truth), completely lost. It was only a matter of time before he realized what had happened, before his mind registered he had kissed Draco Malfoy, whom he despised, and then his perfect, little world would crumble into dust. And he would hate me more than ever. Perhaps he would hate himself, as well. 

It seemed I had been right. Out of the sudden, a shiver shook his body and he paled. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" he drawled. His voice was cold and full of disgust. For me, for himself, for the world. I could tell by the way he clenched his fists that there was nothing he wanted more at the moment than slowly break every bone in my body and then start over again. He would, however, have had to touch me again, and it was only this, I believe, that kept him rooted to the spot. He just gazed at me, looking sickened. This look infuriated me more than it should have.

"What do _you_ think I'm doing, Potter?" I answered his question with another question, in the nastiest tone I could summon. "I'm fucking with you," I threw back at him his own words. 

He was positively enraged now, but still didn't dare to beat the crap out of me. I took advantage of that.

"Oh, come on, Potter! Don't give me that look! I know you wanted it, too! Because of her eyes. What do you see at those eyes, I wonder? What do you see at her?" I took a step towards him and he pulled back like I was a poisonous snake. "The wonder of the wizarding world, the great Harry Potter, falling for a girl he knows nothing about! I thought you were smarter than that!"

While I spoke, the look in his eyes had been gradually changing from rage to fear. But what were you afraid of, Potter?

"How… how do you know?"

"About her?" I raised an eyebrow, putting an amused look on my face. "Oh, I have my methods, Potter." I paused and returned his glare.

"Go on and hit me like you want! Though you should ask yourself, if you like *her_*_ that much, what the hell did just happen here now, Potter," I continued to provoke him. He didn't move. "Well, if you're too scared of touching me, I have better things to do right now."

He still didn't react. The whole thing suddenly made me feel very tired. So I turned around and left him alone.

~``~``~

**A/N: **For those of you who are confused, Harry didn't realize Draco is his 'Mystery Girl'. He believes that Malfoy found out about her somehow and uses what he knows to make his life miserable. Or, at least, that's what happened from Draco's point of view. Harry acts like he doesn't know the truth, so Draco believes that Harry doesn't know the truth. But I'm not saying that Harry knows the truth. Anyway, things will clear out in the next chapters. 


	6. Acceptance, Denial and What Lies in Betw...

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humor

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N**: I'm sorry it took me so long to update here. The story was fully posted on Fiction Alley, but I've been rewriting it ever since. Anyway, I'm updating the revised version only on ff.net for now. It will be a new chapter every day, and there are about half of them left. The first five chapters have also been rewritten. Thanks for your patience and enjoy!

**A/N:** The symbols *…* / **…** are used instead of Italics (**…** is for longer fragments like letters, flashbacks).

A Flawless Plan

by Drea Leeways

VI. [Acceptance, Denial and What Lies in Between]

You know how the moon is so disturbingly yellow at times? So prominently standing out on the smooth, otherwise unblemished darkness of the night sky, that it makes your eyes hurt? I sat in my bed that night, looking at the moon. Because the moon was so not-complicated, so easy to define. It was round and yellow, and I didn't particularly like it. It was that plain and simple. Unlike whatever was going on between me and Potter.

Earlier that night, 'she' had gone to meet him, despite the urge I felt to lock myself in my room and never see a human face again. It didn't matter what I *felt*, though, because I did only what I *reasoned* I had to. Keep up the role, go on with my mission, because once I've started something, I do believe in finishing it. 

~``~

As I said, 'she' had gone to meet Potter yet again earlier that night. He had been unusually silent, not that I'd been in a very talkative mood myself. He'd also been quite distant towards 'her'…

**"What's wrong?" I asked.

**"Nothing." He shook his head.

Denial can be a very powerful driving force.

**"Do you want me to leave then?"

**"What? No… Why would I?" He sounded like he had meant it. I'd never figured it out – whether Potter was actually that good at acting or he had really meant it.

**"You look like you could use some time by yourself, though. You'd barely spoken a word. Oh well, I guess I'll leave now." I had no intention of doing so, of course.

**"NO! Stay!" he panicked. "I'll tell what's the problem." He appeared to be thinking hard. "Malfoy. He knows about us…"

_**_Something stirred inside me. A sort of anxious anticipation, a mixture of excitement and fear. 

**"And?" I asked.

**"And that's it," he replied in an irritated voice.

**"You sounded like it's more." *Come on, Potter, tell me about the kiss,* I wanted to scream. *Tell me you wanted it!* But, of course, he wouldn't.

**Still, I do know how to push people's buttons.

**Potter slammed his fist onto a nearby desk. "It isn't!" 

**Naturally, he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince 'her', if not more. 'She' took a step back, looking frightened. One of my best performances. The effect on Potter was immediate.

**"I'm… I'm sorry," Potter stammered. "It… it really bugs me that the bastard knows!"

**I pushed it even further.

_**_"And what do you think he can do about it, Harry? Go to Dumbledore and tell on us?"

**"Yes, that's pretty much Malfoy's style."

**How dare he presume he knew me that well!

**"Well, then you can stop worrying. He won't do that."

**"How can you be so sure?" He looked at 'her' suspiciously.

**"Think for a moment, Harry! Malfoy is more likely to keep what he knows to himself and take his sweet time in tormenting you about it! Now, that's Malfoy's style."

You're wondering, why would I let Potter know that my plan was to torment him about his recently revealed 'secret'? Well, obviously because that wasn't my plan. I had something better to torment Potter about. But right then, it had to wait.

**"And how come you know so much about him?" Potter raised an eyebrow, inquisitively. "You're not even a student here! I've never seen you at neither at the tables in the Great Hall, nor in the corridors during breaks!" It sounded like an accusation. Potter's patience was finally breaking.

**"Maybe you didn't look properly," I replied on a bitter tone than I had intended.

**"I'm tired of this game you play!" I could tell that Potter was very close to loosing control. "Why can you just tell me who you are? Why do you always have to leave after an hour? Why do I have to meet you only at night?" He looked at 'her' angrier than any time before.

**That was the Potter I knew. That was the Potter I could handle. 

**"You don't really trust me, do you?… I thought you did." Potter really didn't stand a chance in front of that.

**"No… I… Look, it's hard to talk about it," he whispered and let himself slide onto the floor. He stood there, his chin propped against his knees, stubbornly refusing to speak. I knew he was angry, but fought to maintain control because he cared about 'her' that much. Heart breaking, really! 

**I didn't speak either, but I was getting bored. So I figured kissing would be a nice compromise between not speaking and not actually doing anything.

_**_Potter's lips were cold and strange that night. He kissed back for a while, but then retreated. 

**"I… I can't do this tonight!"

**I didn't understand. I could very well tell why he wouldn't kiss me, but, before that night, he had always been very eager to kiss 'her'. It felt weird being rejected, it felt like nothing I'd known before. I hadn't been expecting it. And I didn't understand.

**"Why?" 'Her' voice sounded weak and lost. Damn you, Potter!

**He took a deep breath, and what he said next, despite not being the answer to my very direct and otherwise simple question, caused my jaw to drop.

**"Have you ever thought about kissing another girl?"

**I finally recovered from my surprise, and managed to retort.

**"Maybe." And because he didn't say anything, I continued, teasingly. "Would you like to watch?" But I knew that wasn't why he asked the question.

**"Stop it! I wasn't joking!"

**"I know. But this isn't about me. Come on, Harry, admit it. Should I be jealous? Who's he?"

**"I am not like that!" he raised his voice. "It's Malfoy who's the sick, perverted bastard!"

**I must've gone livid. Thankfully, there wasn't much light, so Potter didn't notice. Then we started shouting at each other. Potter started it actually, but I followed. I assume he thought 'she' was jealous and lost 'her' temper. 

**"He's the one who kissed me, I didn't do anything-"

**"You kissed him back-"

**"Stop it! You don't know anything about-"

**"You wouldn't be in this state if you hadn't kissed back!"

**"It was his fault-"

**"You're a coward, you wanted to-"

**"I thought about it, all right! I don't know when it started! Maybe a year ago. It didn't mean I would actually kiss a boy. I just thought about it. It was supposed to be just a phase. Until today. I hate him! And I don't need this nonsense! My life's a mess as it is. Are you satisfied now?"

**"No." I didn't realise I said it aloud until Potter spoke again.

**"I'm sorry. I was so stupid." 

**But he didn't say what he was sorry for. For being honest? For trusting 'her'? For loosing his temper? 

**And, before I could come to a conclusion, Potter did something unprecedented. He stood up and left the classroom.

**I felt my mind going numb and my body suddenly began to ache. I guess the right word to describe my state would have been be 'broken'.  Except that a Malfoy never breaks. We live to break the others.**

~``~

I felt tired and sick with how tired I was, yet my eyes simply refused to shut close and remain that way. I stood up from my bed and headed for my trunk. There it was, a small blue bottle, containing some Dreamless Sleep Draught.

I had considered using DSD before, but always managed to keep going without. Until then. You see, if I took it once, I'd be taking it for the second time as well, then for the third… I didn't want or need another addiction. Potter was enough of an addiction for me. But, at the same time, I felt my head was going to explode if I didn't get some sleep – with Potter and the sodding rest of the world out of my mind.

I did one other thing before taking the potion, though. Suddenly, I was experiencing the unstoppable curiosity to see myself, so I went to the mirror. I couldn't recall looking at myself properly ever since the madness had begun. How was it that I'd been so oblivious to my external appearance all this time, I couldn't understand! 

"You look so depressing, dear! So pale and thin… Are you sure you aren't sick?" 

The mirror had a point. I was too tired, though, to threaten it with breaking for insolence. What was worse, I could recall hearing the same words day by day, again and again, for weeks and weeks, and not paying the tiniest amount of attention to them. I had become such a wreck. I felt sick only looking at my reflection.

I used to be pale before, but it suited me back then. Now, my skin had a distinctive jaundiced nuance that made me shudder. If Mother had been able to see me in that state, she would have without doubt suffered a nervous breakdown. She always used to tell me I was beautiful, and made me swear I would never mock that beauty. For, Mother loved herself in me. Had I been born bearing less resemblance to her, I guess I wouldn't have been worth a lousy Sickle in her eyes… The way I was, however, she could never get enough of me. When I had been younger, she used to spend hours in my room, combing my hair and dressing me, the way you comb and dress a doll. Annoying, to say the least. Then she stood by my side in front of the mirror, looking at our faces together with such a deep fascination that it both enthralled and frightened me.

_*_"You eyes are simply exquisite, Draco! The colour of the frozen winter sky on a cloudless morning. No other boy in this world has ever had eyes as beautiful as yours!"* You wouldn't bare to look at my eyes, now, Mother! 

Weeks and weeks of sleepless nights, transforming, meeting Potter and thinking of nothing else but how to get under his skin, had left a hideous pair of black circles under my once unaltered, 'exquisite' eyes. In addition to this, I had become thinner, to such an extent that it scared me. My cheekbones were standing out so prominently, that I actually dreaded imagining how my naked body looked under my robes. No, this was to end right there and then! I would sleep, Dreamless Draught or not, and I would re-became the Draco Malfoy I had been before, at least as far as the exterior appearance was concerned! I wouldn't let Potter do this to me! I had been weak. It wasn't going to happen again!

One sip from the small blue bottle which killed dreams and nightmares alike – and, for the first time after many tormenting nights, the potion left my mind devoid of thought and my sleep, Potter-free.

~``~

The next morning, at breakfast, Potter constantly avoided my gaze. Who would have thought that the Boy Who Lived was such a coward! It was like he had decided the kiss didn't happen. But what he had decided didn't matter to me. I had made my own decisions. 

When I had woken up that morning, the restful, dreamless sleep had left my mind clear again, after a long, painful era of confusion. I realised I was inevitably drawn to Potter, a cursed infatuation I couldn't but acknowledge. More than this, even. An Obsession. 

One might point out, at this particular moment, that Potter was a boy and so was I, and it was all wrong. At least, that's what I had been raised to believe, which was extremely hilarious in a rather non-amusing fashion, as I happened to know very well that many of Father's 'friends' constantly engaged themselves in sexual practices that made a liaison between two persons of the same gender appear innocent by comparison. Nonetheless, that uncanny need I felt for Potter _was_ wrong. I didn't have a problem with that, actually. It made me want him even more just because it was wrong. You see, I may not be generally honest to the others, but I believe in being honest with myself. 

And Potter was drawn to me in a similar way, and there was no way to deny it, yet he did precisely that. I didn't know what was going on under that thick Gryffindor skull of his. Maybe he was ashamed, or maybe he was scared, or perhaps both. The worst for him, then! Because it wouldn't stop me from getting what I wanted. I am selfish. It's a family trait. When a Malfoy wants something, we don't ask for permission, we don't long, we don't wait patiently for a miracle – we take. Right then, I decided I wanted Potter and nothing else, so, naturally, I would have him, regardless of anything. But then what about my mission, you wonder. Well, I hadn't forgotten about it. In fact, my new decision fitted it all too perfectly! Because Potter was so keen to push me away! And that made me and His Grim Evilness share a common goal for the moment. Make Potter hurt, break and fall apart!

I was experiencing such a revengeful mood that morning I almost frightened myself. Oh, well, Potter was to blame for everything. Or so I kept repeating in my mind.

After finishing breakfast, my legs carried me almost unaided to the Gryffindor table. Most of the people there stared at me like they'd seen a Hippogriff waltzing, but Potter seemed very determined to keep ignoring me. Not once had he lifted his gaze from his plate. Really, when had bacon become that interesting! It was time to awake Scar-Face from his apathy and to find out just how much his so precious friends knew about our 'interaction' the other day. I had had my little performance very carefully planned on the way from our table to theirs.

"Hello, Potter!" I greeted him in cheerful voice. I think I remember Granger gasping at that point, and Weasley forgetting to close his mouth. Must've been the shock… Potter, however, still refused to grant me a look.

"Well, don't mind me then," I continued, acting friendly enough to unsettle him. "I've just dropped by to thank you for yesterday!"

I am truly a master at figuring Potter out! The instant I had finished speaking the previous words, he snapped, practically jumping from his seat and spilling pumpkin juice all over the table.

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?"

It was real hate I could see in his eyes. Strange, how it seem to warm me inside.

"Oh, Potter, but you surely know what I'm talking about, don't you?!" I faked amazement in a intended obvious manner.

At that point, Potter would have probably taken out his frustration by punching my face, but I guess not even he was that reckless as to start a fight in full view of all the teachers and the headmaster.

"I heard you skipped Transfiguration and McGonagall, the old dear, went so mad at you that she took like, what? Fifty points from Gryffindor?" I continued in a casual tone. I don't know if any of Potter's friends noticed the imperceptible sigh of relief he let out as soon as he heard my response.

"With the amount of points you're losing in Potions, now that you've decided to extend this lovely habit to Transfiguration as well, the House Cup has 'Slytherin' practically written all over it this year! So you have my eternal gratitude for this, Potter!" These last words, I uttered in a slightly ironic manner. After all, I didn't want the others to believe I was actually acting friendly towards Potter.

"Get lost, Malfoy! Whether Harry skips classes or not is none of your business," Granger scowled at me. Weasley simply gritted his teeth menacingly.

"How enchanting, Potter! Your friends here are defending you… I suppose, then, you told them why you skipped in the first place. It was a perfectly understandable reason, after all!"

The furious look on Weasley's face and Granger worried expression, told me exactly what I wanted to know. Potter had told nothing to either of them.

"Shut up, Ferret face!" 

"Make me, Weasel!"

"Leave it, Ron. Let's go." So Potter was back to ignoring me… For the moment, I let him leave with his friends. At least now I knew without a doubt that he hadn't spoken a word to anyone about what had happened between us the other day. And that meant only one thing. The kiss had indeed awaken something that scared the hell out of Potter.

~``~ 

I remember the rest of that day slowly dragging by, until there were no more classes left and I was finally on the way to my room, determined to have some homework done, and then try to get some rest before transforming to meet Potter again.

The corridors were deserted at that time of the day and I didn't pay any particular attention to the path I was taking. That's how I came very close to stumbling over something that laid on the floor, and almost breaking my neck. It turned out that the 'something' was in fact a person, crouched against the wall, face buried in his knees. But even so, I knew him in a heartbeat.

"Potter…"

He lifted his face, gave me an empty look and resumed his former position. That was to show me he didn't care. About life, about me – which one, I couldn't tell. But I wasn't going to make it that easy for him. I went to the opposite wall and allowed myself to slide along it, until I was mirroring Potter's position, except that I didn't hide my face, but kept staring intently at him. He eventually lifted his gaze again and, this time, he didn't looked away from my eyes.

"Malfoy," he finally acknowledged my person. I couldn't read his voice this time and it bothered me. I kept waiting in silence, wondering when or if he would decide to speak.

"What do you want?" he asked after some more moments of silence, his voice a bit uncertain now. I couldn't distinguish his features anymore. The corridor was flooded in semi-obscurity, as it was late enough for the sun to have already set, but not late enough for the torches to have themselves lit up.

"Oh, I know exactly what I want, Potter." I was stressing every word. "The question is, do you?"

Another pause. "I want you to leave me alone," he eventually spoke, sternly and very in control of himself this time. For a brief moment, it crossed my mind that maybe, just maybe, I was the one fooling myself and no the other way around, and Potter actually meant every single word of rejection he had spoken, that I was the one in denial, assuming without more evidence than my own wishes, that I could awake in Potter something else than the customary annoyance and disgust.

"Do you?" I repeated myself, aware that my voice was trembling just a bit and hoping Potter wouldn't notice.

He didn't answer this time, but instead buried his face in his knees once more and I could see his shoulders shaking.

"Merlin, Potter, tell me you're not crying like a baby!" My voice had been cold, but I was in fact horrified. Not *of* Potter's reaction, but *because of* it, of what it was doing to me. I wanted… I didn't know what I wanted. To go near him and stop the shaking, hold him like he had held 'her' in a similar situation, many, many nights ago. To go near him and kiss him, bruise him, hurt him, break him even more. Luckily, he raised his face almost instantly and whispered "Lumos," holding his wand to his face, so that I could see he hadn't been crying. 

"I wouldn't cry in front of you!"

"Well, Potter, what can I say? I'm glad you weren't. That would've been some pathetic performance, even for you," I drawled, hoping I was hiding well that I actually felt relieved.

"Sod off, Malfoy, and leave me alone!"

"If my presence disturbs you so much, you're free to go, Potter! I don't see you handcuffed to me in any way."

He stood up and my heart skipped a bit at the thought that he might actually leave, but he didn't. Instead, he walked right to me, looking down to my face.

"Just one question, Malfoy. You hate me, right?"

"You know I do, Potter."

"You've always hated me, isn't it so?"

"Ten points to Gryffindor for being so perceptive," I retorted sarcastically, feeling no real amusement.

"Spare me the show, Malfoy!" Potter was loosing his patience, and it was, in fact, a wonder he hadn't done so much earlier. "If you've always hated me, what's the difference now?"

It was my turn to stand up. "Now, Potter," I spoke, slowly closing the space between me and him, "I hate you differently."

I brushed around him in a fluid motion that brought me at his back. He wanted to turn and face me again, but I was quicker. In no time, I had Potter pinned against the wall, struggling to get free. I knew I couldn't hold him like that for too long. I didn't need to, I only desired him helpless and at my mercy for a few moments, so that I could make my statement. 

"Very differently," I hissed into his ear, softly touching his burning cheek with my lips. And then I went away. 

~``~

Eventually, the Christmas break arrived. Very few students had chosen to stay at Hogwarts for the winter break. In fact, me and Potter made up a quarter of the remaining students… well, you can do the math yourself.

I am certain that he had no idea I was staying as well. I didn't go down for breakfast on the first day of the holidays. When I woke up, Father's owl was patiently expecting by my bed with a letter which sort of… ruined my appetite.

**Dear son,

**Your mother and I are very sad to not having you home for the holidays, but we all have to make sacrifices at on point or another, don't we? I am very pleased with the recent development of your 'assignment'. In fact, your mother and I had invited some of your schoolmates and their parents for dinner last evening, and they told us how hard you've been working all those months.**

Father had spies, then… Well, it didn't surprise me in the least!

**It had also been brought to my notice this little piece of news that Potter is not quite 'well'. Lost and tired of living, I hear. It surprises me that Dumbledore has no better care of his little hero, actually! And what a pity it would be indeed to have Potter die of depression... As things are progressing, it might happen _sooner_ than expected. You understand what I mean, I'm sure. Also, you should be glad that your assignment is _almost_ _complete_ now. Soon, everything will be over! But then again, every end is only a new beginning.

**Your father, 

**Lucius**

This could only mean one thing. It was there, black on white – He-Who-Hated-The-Boy-Who-Lived was ready to make his move. It appeared that my mission had been accomplished without myself noticing it. There was no need to play 'her' anymore. Except that, somewhere down the road, my goal had changed, and now I had no idea how to obtain what I wanted, which was – as I'm sure I've pointed out several times already – Potter. 

And there was so little time left that it almost hurt… Almost.

~``~``~


	7. Unwanted

**Title**: A Flawless Plan 

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humour

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N: ***…*/**…** are used for Italics. (**…** for longer fragments like dreams, letters, flashbacks.)

VII. [Unwanted] 

I'm not much of a winter enthusiast, really, yet there's something about the first snow. It's difficult to explain without going all poetic and stuff. And I hate going poetic. Spoils my Slytherin image. But I guess it doesn't matter anymore.

Maybe it's because the ground is no longer of a dull and dirty colour. The thing about the first snow, I mean. It's hard to be coherent on a night like this. Or perhaps it's the air, that smells differently. Or, the sky, which has a different texture. And the snowflakes keep coming down, falling, falling, falling. 

There was a time when I used to step outside as soon as the snowing ceased just for the sake of watching my feet crushing the white surface, still frail. It gave me a very nice feeling of control. I was the first to disturb it, the marks I left making the perfect whiteness less perfect. I could've run across it in every direction, trample it under my feet, tear pieces of it with my hands. But I didn't. That was the job of the noisy, mindless crowd that was bound appear soon enough, bruising the silence with their laughter, profaning the fragile beauty with their careless steps, twisting it into deformed snowmen, or messing it for a useless snow fight. It didn't matter that the traces they left would disappear with the following snow. To me, they were like wounds, which might've healed, but always left scars. 

That's why I only liked the first snow. There were always scars, under the layers that followed.

I used to walk, sometimes, until I reached a point where the whiteness engulfed me completely, and then I used to let myself slip and sink into its coolness. And time and space ceased to exist. It was soothing. Cold. Silent. Dispassionate. But safe. Then I used to look up at the sky and it mirrored the ground, except that I didn't see myself in that mirror, which made it so easy to pretend I didn't exist, that I too was a part of this agglomeration of tiny ice crystals, feeling nothing, wanting nothing, fearing nothing. 

And sometimes, as I laid in the snow, it started snowing again, and I still watched the skies, while little white fragments were now coming down at deadly speeds. I felt them upon my face, clinging to my eyebrows, stinging my lips, melting like undesired tears into my eyes and making me blink. 

There's something about the first snow. Once, it used to be the most beautiful part of winter. But now I'm just drunk.

~``~

It had begun snowing soon after breakfast, on the first day of the winter break. I went outside around noon, pleased to see that no other living soul had, so far, followed my example. I needed to ponder the recent turn of events (more specifically, Father's last letter), or so I kept telling myself. It was as good a pretext as any other to simply go lying in the snow and pretend that the rest of the world had vanished, and along with it my troubles. Namely, one trouble called Potter.

I'd been lying on my back for a while, gazing at the sky, letting my mind wander freely, when – splash! Somebody had just thrown a fistful of snow into my face and it was _not_ a pleasant sensation.

"Potter," I somehow managed to drawl, between spitting the snow out of my mouth and rubbing it off from my eyes, while a part of it slowly melted and slid down over my face and neck and then under my robes, sending shivers down my spine. Definitely not a pleasant sensation.

"Oh, so you're not dead, after all, Malfoy! Well, one could hope…" Potter was currently staring down at me, with a weird grin on his face. 

"Get lost, Potter," I retorted, not actually wanting him to go – I'm sure you understand this – but for the sake of conversation. 

I resumed my former position and closed my eyes to make a point, knowing, of course, it would be lost on Potter. It suited me very fine right then.

"Go dig a hole somewhere, and burry yourself, or put your wand at a good use and vanish your arse out of my sight. You're ruining my perfect, peaceful moment in the snow, Potter."

He started to giggle like an idiot. Well, it was actually sort of enthralling, but still… And the next moment, I heard a soft thud and I knew Potter had just landed himself by my side into the snow. Also, I'm quite positive that he didn't see the little smile I felt creeping on my lips without me being able to refrain from it. 

"So what are you still doing here, Malfoy?" Something was definitely changed about Potter. He'd almost sounded friendly.

"Right," I replied, still not opening my eyes, nor moving, "I keep forgetting that you own this particular spot… Honestly, Potter, you're not the king of the world, no matter what Dumbledore keeps telling you! I am here because I want to and because this is no one's territory in particular."

Potter scowled. I wasn't looking, but I'm positive he did.

"Rumours had it that you were an intelligent life form, Malfoy... I didn't ask what you were doing here in the snow, you idiot, but what are you still doing here at school? Has your horrible family finally got tired of you and decided they didn't want you back?"

"Was that a joke? Ha ha, very funny, Potter. Satisfied? Will you leave me alone now?" I replied with an even voice.

"I don't understand you, Malfoy." He sounded rather confused. "I've just insulted you and your family. You should be throwing fists at my face right now."

I rolled to my right so suddenly that Potter actually gasped at finding himself lying under me without any warning.

"My, my, Potter, I'm flattered! But if you are that desperate for my touch, all you have to do is ask, because your insults, well, they suck," I said, leaning down to his lips. I stopped when our faces almost touched and his breath was warm upon my own freezing lips.

It didn't last for too long. Potter suddenly pushed me aside and started to run. While I was standing up, arranging my robes, a snowball hit my shoulder. I retorted almost instinctively, aiming at Potter's head. He dodged and grabbed another handful of snow. And thus the snow fight started. 

I should probably point out that I consider snow fights to be utterly undignified and silly. I felt incredibly stupid, running after Potter and trying to make him digest a considerable quantity of snow, but I couldn't just retreat and allow him to laugh at me. I think we chased and tried to hit one another with snowballs for about half an hour, before we both ran out of breath.

"Call it quit, Malfoy! You're loosing, anyway!"

"The only looser here is you, Potter!"

"You don't stand a chance against me, Malfoy, you're too out of shape! Have you checked a mirror lately? You look like a ghost!"

I don't remember how it happened, but suddenly we were very close again. Potter's expression changed, and he studied my face intently, which made me slightly uncomfortable.

"No, I was wrong," he whispered so faintly that I mostly read the words from his lips, rather than hearing them. "Not a ghost, more like a demon. A demon of winter."

Well, well, who would have thought that Potter was such a poetic kind of soul! But something stopped me to make proper fun of him right then.

"So beautiful," he continued and I felt my legs melting. Did he mean what I wanted him to mean? But his eyes changed the next moment, becoming unreadable. "So cold. So deceiving. I'm not playing your twisted, sick little game, Malfoy! So that you know!"

"Fuck yourself, Potter!" I snapped. A sign of weakness, loosing control on the tiniest of provocations. But Potter still managed to get the worst out of me back then. 

"Some fucking nerve you have!" I couldn't stop yelling at him. "Why are you here then, if you don't want anything to do with my *twisted*, *sick* person?"

We ended up fighting, of course. Fighting in the snow and ruining it, which made me furious. Why did Potter had to ruin every single flawless thing in my world? I both hated him and wanted him madly, achingly, during the breathtaking seconds of our fight. It never occurred to me, until then, that fighting could be so similar to an act of passion. Potter had managed to pin me down somehow, his knee pressing into one of my hips, his hands bruising my face, crushing my chest; then we rolled over the ground, entangled, and I was suddenly the one pushing down on him, his shoulders digging hard into the cold surface. His heartbeats accelerated, and they were so loud that I could have mistaken them for my own. Or maybe they were truly my own.  

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Potter finally recaptured his breath and questioned me with angry eyes and flushed cheeks.

"Not very creative, are we, Potter? I distinctly remember you asking the same question only days ago, after one particularly, rather heated – interaction we had." I released his wrists and let my hands travel slowly over his chest and down to his waist.

"Malfoy…"  His voice was quivering, almost pleading. It made my blood start burning like contaminated with an incurable disease. Hate and desire. I wondered if Potter would understand.

"What I want, Harry-" I spoke idly, showing no emotion, yet so aware of how every single part of my body was aching for him.

"Is-" 

I brushed my lips against his earlobe and traced a path down his cheek with the tip of my tongue.

"To abuse-"

My mouth went over his in a split second, before he could properly register what was happening. I bit his lower lip so hard that he let out a cry. Small drops of blood rolled down his chin.

"And to adore," I finished, now gently tasting his bruised lip, sucking the blood away, then brushing a few strands of hair from his eyes.

His eyes. They were again full of unnamed fears, like they had been weeks ago, on that deserted corridor. But he didn't protest, he didn't move and he didn't speak. I sank my fingers into the snow and took a small quantity to place it upon Potter's bleeding lip, which had already began to swell. He whimpered. And so I couldn't do anything but kiss him some more. He struggled a bit under me and I figured his bleeding lip must've hurt, but I didn't stop. His lips were cold and wet and soft, and the snow melted into his mouth, making him choke and gasp for air. I let him take a few breaths, but before he could close his mouth again my tongue was entangled with his, and he tasted like snow and blood, (well, what did you expect – strawberry cream?) and deception. Which he shouldn't have, because deception shouldn't taste like anything or anyone.

"Get off me, Malfoy!" He jerked so violently beneath me this time that I found myself lying flat on my back – again – and rather stunned, too. 

Potter didn't look back. He stormed to the castle, his robes billowing frantically due to the wind that had just started to blow. His Gryffindor scarf, red and gold, remained forgotten in the snow. Mine, too, lay feet away. I could feel the anger rising in my chest like never before in my life. Who and what gave him the right to accuse me of being 'deceptive'? Like he cared! Like it would have made any difference if I wasn't! And what gave him the right to act disgusted of me and of my 'twisted, sick little game', then run away? Like he wasn't the one who kissed back! Like he wasn't the one who trembled so enticingly every time I touched him! 

Drawing in a deep breath – the icy sting in my nostrils fortunately brought me back to a proper state of mind – I went to pick up my scarf, but I didn't touch Potter's. He could summon it later if he cared. Because I most certainly didn't. And I was already very cold.

~``~

Only after returning to my room, I noticed that my robes were soaking wet, because I'd been too distracted to put a Drying Charm on them. Again, it would be Potter's fault if I caught a cold. I sneezed. That settled it. As much as I didn't want to, I had to go to the Infirmary and let that old hag, Pomfrey, feed me some foul tasting medicine.

As my luck used to turn lately, Potter was already there. I was about to open the Infirmary door when I heard his voice and stopped.

"Um, I bit it by mistake," Potter was saying.

Pomfrey must have inquired about his lip. I had to choke down a contemptuous snigger. Really, Potter was such a pathetic liar that I almost felt sad for him…

Apparently, Pomfrey was following a similar line of thought. "Hm," I heard the old hag muttering, "let me tell you, Mr. Potter, that it looks suspiciously like a kissing bite. If I didn't know that there were no young ladies staying for holidays, I wouldn't find it so easy to believe your explanation."

Potter was blushing. I simply knew he was blushing – like a sodding innocent maiden – and I felt the unstoppable need to see it myself. So I opened the door.

Pomfrey turned her attention away from Potter to see who had just come in. Lucky her, it was me.

"Mr. Malfoy?" She looked at me questioningly, and not very pleased. Call it mutual dislike…

"I'm on the verge of catching cold. Would you, _please_, do something about it?"

"Well, since you ask so *nicely_*_, Mr. Malfoy…" I guess she never quite got over me calling her something along the lines of 'Old Vile Crazy Bitch, Stupid Useless Sorry Excuse Of A Healer, And On Top Of It, Ugly'. It happened in my third year – the Hippogriff Incident. (Potter's fault again.) And I might have not been that coherent. But what can I say, I was a temperamental child, and she was doing some pretty nasty things to my arm. I think it was the 'Old and Ugly' part that really did it, though – really made her hate me. Because it was the only part which was also true. People tend to start hating you when you throw the truth in their faces.

"Please sit, Mr. Malfoy." She gestured to the empty bed next to the one occupied by Potter. "I'd rather take care of your problem first, as Mr. Potter needs my whole attention." In other words, 'I'll kick your sorry arse out of my Infirmary as soon as possible, you little impertinent piece of dung!' Dear old Pomfrey… I would've smirked at her, just to show how *unimpressed* I was, but she turned to look for the medicine in one of the shelves on the wall.

I chanced a look at Potter. He was, of course, ignoring me as best as he could. He looked like a mess, that is, a real mess, not just the mess he usually looked like. Pomfrey's concern for him was unsurprising. Apart from his bruised lip, he was very pale, his robes were still wet, as well as his hair. Drops of melted snow were sliding along his forehead and temples, like sweat, making him look ill. 

Instead of sitting where Pomfrey had indicated, I went and dropped casually by Potter's side. 

"My, Potter, is that a kissing bite?" 

I brushed his cheek with my index finger lightly, teasingly. He jerked away from me so suddenly, that Pomfrey actually turned to see what happened. 

"Leave Mr. Potter alone, Mr. Malfoy," she snapped, severely, somehow under the impression that she would be intimidating.

"That's all right, Madam Pomfrey," Potter replied almost instantly, managing to sound less frightened than he looked. "It's none of your business, Malfoy." He actually glared at me. "But if you want to know, I bit my lip by mistake," he ended defiantly.

"Oh, please, Potter! I know a love mark when I see one!" Especially when it's one of mine.

"Mr. Malfoy, stop harassing Mr. Potter, he's *not* feeling well! And I'm sure you know there aren't any girls staying at Hogwarts for holidays this year."

It was happening. Potter was turning red again. 

"So? Anyway, it doesn't look like a *girl's* bite, if you ask me. I've always said that Potter was too pretty for his own sake." 

Potter became very fascinating to watch. Out of the sudden, all the colour withdrew from his cheeks and he became paler than before.

"But if you want a piece of advice, Potter," I continued, looking straight at him, "you don't go around displaying love bites like that. It makes you look so… _owned_."

"Here's your medicine, Mr. Malfoy!" Pomfrey practically hit me in the face with the goblet. "Drink it and then get out from my Infirmary, before– Dear Merlin, Potter, are you all right?" Potter looked positively green and ready to spill his stomach all around, but his eyes were still dark and flaming.

"Malfoy, OUT!" The crazy hag pushed me to the door, without even giving me the chance to empty my goblet. I pressed the door handle, but just before exiting, I felt the compelling need to gaze at Potter once more. Pomfrey had made him lie down onto the bed and was gently pulling his glasses from his face. He simply stood there quietly, staring at the ceiling, shaking a bit while she covered him with a blanket. He looked so frail at that moment, that I both wanted to laugh and curse myself for what I had done to him. Of him. 

I didn't do either. Instead, I emptied my goblet in one long gulp and it tasted every drop as vile as snake venom must have tasted, burning my throat, but for the first time in my life I didn't have the energy to hate Pomfrey for it. Potter was lying in that bed, the nurse fussing around him like an animated wheel, and I was unwanted there. I opened the door and left the Infirmary. I had to be the one who always left, leaving somebody else to pick the pieces.

~``~

Potter didn't show up that night, all the better for him. Instead, his owl was waiting with a short note for 'her'. He wrote that he'd caught a cold and Madam Pomfrey didn't let him return to the Gryffindor dorms – especially since he was alone there – so he would miss our next two encounters. I was actually relieved. Since _that_ night (you know, the one when the idiot walked out on me), Potter hadn't really been himself around 'her'. We never talked about that night again. Actually, he used to sulk and not talk at all – which proved just how much he needed 'her', if he was still showing up, despite the growing tension. He generally didn't turn down kissing, but it was more like he was trying to prove a point, and I had more than just an idea about what exactly this point might have been. Potter struggled, pointlessly, to prove himself that he still liked girls. Like that would stop him from having certain 'entertaining' thoughts about boys, as well! Gryffindor naïveté, how very charming.

One way or another, two nights free of Potter came as a nice break. Or so I thought at first. Pomfrey's medicine, although successfully preventing a running nose and a sore throat, left me with a slight fever. Nothing I couldn't have handled myself without her further assistance, fortunately, but resilient enough to weaken my body. Even so, or perhaps because of it, I felt suddenly more light headed than I'd been in weeks. My worries lifted, and my mind and heart gone numb, I surprised myself by yawning heartily. It was like my body decided it couldn't take any more and took over my mind, with a mind of its own, sternly set on resting. My feet stumbled as I dragged myself to the bed. It was unbelievable! I was truly sleepy!

I decided to suppress the Dreamless Sleep Draught and properly enjoy rest for the first time in I couldn't remember how long. Now, unless you've used DSD with regularity and then suppressed it suddenly, you probably know nothing about side effects. I, for one, didn't. And I went to bed embarrassingly unaware that I was going to have the most amazing wet dream in my entire existence. Now, don't get me wrong, suppressing DSD suddenly doesn't automatically produce wet dreams, but rather enhances your body reactions to the first dream you have. Just my luck to dream of Potter! 

I was kissing him again, in the dream. We still laid in the snow, and Potter's lip was bleeding, but he was making no attempt to get free from my grip. And then he was pushing his body against mine, saying 'But I'm sure you want more…', and then he was moaning my name. 

And then, because it was a dream, most of our clothes conveniently disappeared but I didn't feel the cold, and Potter was hissing in my ear loads of nonsenses, about wanting my so very gorgeous body, and how he was entirely mine to take right then and there, and how we could fuck for hours if we wanted to. 

I closed my eyes ecstatically in the dream while being very naked, very hard and having Potter sucking on my earlobe. I opened them again in my room, very much clothed and alone, but still hard. That's because Life's a bitch.

The dream left me sweating and shaking in a distressing state of confusion. It also made me realise something. During the last months, I'd managed to go through a record number of states of mind – from unhealthily obsessive with Potter to occasionally weak when it came to him, to unpardonably lustful when I was near him, to utterly infatuated with him, to shamefully incoherent in thinking due to him, to sickly in need to feel and hurt him and only him. I held no longer control over myself and I had every intention to change it as soon as possible. 

First of all, Potter encounters with 'her' had to stop. 'She' would give him no explanation, which would break his little Gryffindor heart, and that would be the glorious ending of my equally glorious plan. Have I mentioned before what a perfect, flawless plan it had been all along? But I wouldn't let him know it had been me all along. That might have been the idea before, but now the consequences would've been disastrous for my more recently acquired Obsession with Potter, or I should say, because of it. As for the said more recently acquired Obsession with Potter… Damn, the time was too short! I couldn't see him until I would be perfectly in control of myself, but Father's letter messed it all up! Because if Potter was to die soon… No, I couldn't think about that! A dead Potter was a disturbing thought, which I didn't want to analyse more closely. I desired him more alive than ever, and mine. Just have him surrender completely, and stop pushing me back, and let me do to him things he'd never have dreamed of before, and loose myself into those eyes… 

And that was precisely why I couldn't see Potter before getting a grip over myself. (Which, in the light of the events that followed, may appear rather hilarious, because it's exactly what _didn't_ happen. Sadly, I didn't have visionary powers.) I was determined. The next time when Potter and I would kiss, it wouldn't be just kissing, and I was going to be in control. I'd have him pinned under me, trembling, every particle of his body calling for me, and I'd be able to touch him gently, caressing his skin, or hurt him just the same, like I did in the snow, simply because he'd be entirely mine… Only thinking about it made me hard again. I went to open the window and let the icy night air cool my flushed cheeks, before returning to bed and taking care of the situation.

Father didn't say when Whatever-Was-Supposed-To-Happen would happen. There was still time, I told myself. So I would wait. Even if I had to lock myself in my room and vanish the key to stay away from Potter. And no more night encounters after the next one, too. With 'her' out of the picture, maybe he wouldn't have the strength to push *me* back anymore.

~``~``~

A/N: Draco's "to abuse and to adore" line is taken from Robbie William's "Supreme", a song which I happen to love. I was listening it and the said words inspired the kissing-in-the-snow scene.

~``~``~ 


	8. Farewell, Mystery Girl

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humor

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N**: *…*/**…** are used instead of Italics (**…** is for longer fragments like dreams, letters, flashbacks.)

VIII. [Farewell, Mystery Girl]

Two nights after, 'she' was again on her way to meet Potter. Having decided I would make it very clear to Potter it was the last time 'she' met him, I was experiencing a certain amount of curiosity mixed with anticipation when I tried to imagine his reaction. He was definitely very fond of 'her', if nothing else, and telling him off would surely make him hurt. 

Would he be angry, confused, bit his lips like in Potions when adding the wrong ingredient and realising too late? Or would he remain silent and refuse to talk to 'her', sulking and looking maddening at the same time, with his green eyes asking questions never to be answered, questions that his mouth couldn't or wouldn't dare to ask? 

I finally reached the classroom. Or, if you prefer, 'she' did, for the very last time.

"Hello, Harry."

Potter stood up smiling from a desk and came to greet 'her'. "Missed me, Mystery Girl?" 

I would've answered, except I figured it had been more a rhetorical question, as Potter's lips descended upon 'her' neck and I sort of lost focus while he alternated between tracing patterns with his tongue and biting lightly the flesh. Kissing Potter while being 'her' had never felt as good as kissing him with my own, real lips. On the other hand, being kissed by Potter while in 'her' shoes (metaphorically speaking, because 'she' didn't wear any, and the bloody floors were bloody freezing, believe me!) felt nice, because there was no comparison to be made here (he had never, willingly, kissed *me*, after all), but somehow, something had always been missing. Until that night… That night, Potter kissed 'her' just like I'd imagined he would kiss me. It should have rung an alarm bell in my mind, but… Well, let's just say I was distracted.

"Harry… What are… you… oh… doing?"

I could feel 'her' body reacting like never before and it unsettled me. I was used to recognise the first signs of arousal in my own, *male* body, but now the signals were all wrong and it was confusing. My heart started to beat faster, and it wasn't just the kissing, there were also the first signs of panic. 

It's hard to explain. All those months, I'd treated 'her' body like a mask, a tool, one very intimately linked to myself, but still something that wasn't really me, something I could detach myself from. I could speak more freely because it wasn't really me who was speaking. Kissing Potter wasn't as good, because it wasn't really me who did the kissing. Naturally, there had been slips. Little moments when I had conveniently forgotten to be 'her' and had been instead only me, without feeling the mask, the disguise, alien and unnatural. Without feeling that there was any disguise at all. That had been all right, too, in a way, I guess. Forgetting 'her' completely. But now, it was different. Potter's kisses made me want to respond as Draco Malfoy, not as Potter's cursed 'Mystery Girl'. They made me want to forget I was in 'her' body. The trouble was, the reaction of this very body made it in turn impossible to forget, or, for the matter, to respond as anybody else than 'her'. 

Potter finally looked at 'her' and smirked. "Isn't what I'm doing pretty obvious? I'm making sure you did miss me."

Another kiss, this time lips on lips, tongues entangled. Potter's hands were curled in 'her' hair and our bodies were perfectly aligned, so I could feel his heartbeats mixing with 'hers', and his heat radiating on 'her' – my skin, and his scent, and his taste, and all these made me want him like never before. How it happened so fast, I'd never know, but the next thing I consciously acknowledged was Potter's sweater resting on the floor and the upper part of 'her' robes unclasped. 

"Harry… I want to… oh… don't do that… tell you something… "

"I just want you," he said and I froze the moment I realised what he was going to do. What was going to happen. Oh no, I told myself, no, no and no! Definitely not! No! That was not going to happen! I wouldn't let Potter have 'her' like that! Because it was humiliating. I was not going to get laid as a bloody girl! It had to stop! 

As things used to turned lately (that was, *against* me), 'her' body – which, unfortunately, still had _my_ mind contained in it – betrayed me as Potter unclasped the rest of 'her' robes, kissing the exposed skin as he went lower and lower.  

"Har… ry… I…" 

Great, now I was stammering, too, damned the 'girl's' body! I was getting furious, in addition to utterly humiliated and confused. Everything was so wrong and fucked up! My mind told me to push Potter back and get the hell out of that classroom, but 'her' body responded to every kiss and touch and caress of his. 

"Potter!" I almost yelled. "I… can't… come to meet you anymore!!!" 

I expected the words to shock Potter out of what he was doing, make him plead, ask questions, demand reasons. The only thing he demanded was 'her' lips, again.

"Then it should be a… very… special… last… encounter… Don't you think?" he whispered against 'her' left earlobe, his voice low and rough. It made me shiver. That and the fact that 'she' and Potter were both naked by now. 

I'd been dreaming about Potter naked. Rather an understatement, that, but there you have it. I'd imagined the shape of his body during the long, boring Herbology classes. I'd even tired to sketch him once during History of Magic, and I'd fantasized about the feel and taste of his skin long before that night, but it wasn't supposed to happen like that! Not in 'her' body, *not* in 'her' body, I kept repeating to myself, between the moans that escaped 'her' lips. 

Potter lowered 'her' onto our discarded clothes and his kisses grew hungrier, crushing 'her' lips and bruising 'her' skin. And it felt so good. Frightening, but good. All I wanted was to be able to forget I was 'her' and all I wanted was precisely the last thing I could achieve. I tried to close my eyes, but a morbid fascination kept them open, as I couldn't stop watching 'her' body arching under Potter's touch, watching it like it belonged to a stranger – which, in a way, it did, and it only made the whole thing a hundred times worse – but I kept watching, watching Potter's mouth on 'her' breasts, watching Potter's tongue drawing circles around her navel, watching 'her' legs wrapping around Potter's waist, watching Potter growing more and more aroused.

Of course, it was understandable that the way a female body reacted to pleasure was different from a male body, but knowing and experiencing were two very different things, as I kept discovering that night. And, as I kept discovering, I began to feel sick. 'Her' body was bursting with pleasure, 'her' nipples were hard and 'her' breasts were aching, yet it was a pleasant sort of ache, like nothing I'd felt before, and the novelty of the sensations reminded me constantly, a perverse mixture of fear and anticipation, that I was giving up my so highly prized control only to be fucked as a girl. There's no way to put it more nicely. Because that was exactly what was going to happen. As 'her' body grew more and more excited and needy, I grew more and more scared of what would follow, and more humiliated. Because in the end, an end that wasn't so far away, if Potter's state was any indication, 'she' would give 'herself' completely. It was what every cell of 'her' body ached for. To submit, to be taken. I didn't know how to handle that. 'She' was surrendering to Potter in every possible way, and it made me feel helpless and disgusted with myself. Because I could have ended it, but I didn't want to.

And then came the pain. It came so much as a surprise that I let out a cry – in 'her' oh-so-sweet voice, naturally. But who'd have known that the 'girl' was a damn virgin! Because *I* certainly wasn't! But that apparently didn't matter when you took Transjuice Potion! Just another lovely side-effect.

The pain made it worse. If it would've been pure, unaltered pain, at least, maybe I would've had the strength to pull apart. But there was also the pleasure, and they mixed together to a point where I couldn't tell them apart. The orgasm 'she' had was the worst in my life, if one could say such a thing about something that, by definition, makes you think of intense pleasure. But what else would you call an orgasm that leaves you needing to throw up? 

When it was finally over, I was still panting uncontrollably, and it made me feel even more sick with myself. I felt cold. I think I was also very pale at that point. (Of course, I am rather pale all the time.) Oh, and my robes were full of blood, too, just fucking great, my brain screamed among other things, most of them incoherent. Potter was lying near me-who-was-still-'her', panting as well. We stood like that, not moving, for several minutes, recapturing our breaths in silence. It occurred to me that I hadn't really looked at Potter's face while he was over 'her', or inside 'her'.  

Then Potter suddenly turned over and placed a kiss on 'her' lips, so gentle, like none of his kisses had been earlier that night, and so soft and quick, it could have been a brush of hot wind. It was his kiss of good bye, my mind managed to gather. He started dressing.

I started to dress as well. (I only had to put on 'her' robe, so not much of a big deal there…) And then I decided to leave. I couldn't speak, not even if I'd have wanted to. But there was no need to speak. 'She' and Potter had already made their final good bye. Now, I was left to pick the pieces I'd left myself being shattered into.

"What's the rush?" 

Potter's voice must've rung into my ears ten times louder that it really was. 

"I have to go, you know that!" I snapped.

At least, I still had a voice. Even if it was 'hers' and sounded weak and tired. Too late, though. Potter had already grabbed 'her' wrist and was squeezing it so tightly that it hurt.

"Well, since this is our last night together, I thought you might like to take your time to properly say good bye." Something was wrong with the tone of his voice, but I didn't have time to figure it out, because I was about to transform back anytime now and I had to get out of there before that happened.

"Please, let me go," I said, not knowing what else to do. But Potter's grip didn't loosen.

"Oh, I'll let you go. Just wanted to look at something together while you're still here. Come on, should be fun!" he grinned, but his eyes were so devoid of amusement that it made him look like a madman.

"Really, it takes only a moment. Then you can go, I promise."

It looked like I didn't have other option. I sat and Potter put his one arm around 'her'. His other hand disappeared inside his pocket and re-emerged with a scroll. My heart stopped.

"Guess what?" Potter went on cheerfully. "I've found the Marauders Map."

And then I knew everything was really over. He unfolded the map and tapped it with his wand, saying the words I hadn't been able to figure out all those months (no wonder, silly as they were). And I couldn't help but stare, hypnotised, and Potter stared too, at that piece of paper upon which a dot labelled 'Harry Potter' stood very close to another dot labelled 'Draco Malfoy'. 

"I trusted you," he said in a bitter voice. Strangely, he was still talking to 'her'. I didn't have much time to wonder about it.

A convulsion shook my body. I was transforming back. Perfect timing to achieve the perfect Dramatic Effect – it would've been ironic, really, had I not been in the lowest conceivable shape for amusement. Potter jumped on his feet, looking frightened as I writhed on the floor, my flesh, organs and bones melting and reshaping themselves, a slow torture which I'd become accustomed to, but to which I would've never been able to become immune. I always closed my eyes, almost involuntary, during my transformations, so I didn't see Potter's reaction at the sight that I presented him. When I re-opened them, he had retreated several steps and was looking down at me with an unreadable gaze.

I stood up from the floor, shaking, and used my wand to change back my eyes, hair and robes. At least, blood wouldn't stand out so prominently on black. (It didn't cross my mind to use a Cleaning Charm. Which proves just how messed up I was.) Then I turned to Potter.

"Yes, it's really me, Potter." The words had been meant to sound sarcastic, defiant, but all I managed was tired. 

Potter kept gazing at me without saying anything, and it intrigued me that he didn't look surprised, or particularly enraged, or confused. He did look hurt but… It was almost like… he'd been expected to see me there. 

"How long since you knew, Potter?" The words escaped my mouth, surprising me more than they surprised Potter. 

"I didn't know. Until tonight."

Of course. The blasted Map! He'd probably looked at it while I was on my way to the classroom, and he probably hadn't suspected anything at first, but then it must've become obvious that the dot labelled with my name was coming his way, and maybe he still hadn't suspected anything, and, still, I was going to enter the classroom anytime now, and he finally must've realised. I tried to picture his face as he realised. Betrayed, appalled, disgusted, enraged, confused? How I would've loved to see his face as he realised, because I imagined it looking just like every time I kissed him, twisted so fascinatingly with both fear and fury! 

And then I understood something else. He had known all along. He had known about it even *before*. Everything that had happened tonight between Potter and 'her' had been his way to get revenge, to hurt and humiliate me. I'd been fucked. By Potter. Literally. My blood started to boil with anger, unreasonably, like it always had when it came to him. But why wouldn't Potter have done it? Because most certainly I would have done even worst in his place.

"I. Hate. You. Potter!"

"*You* hate *me*?" he drawled in response, looking sickened. "You can possibly understand the meaning of that word, Malfoy. Not the way I do. Not the way *you* taught me to. I hope I hurt you enough, Malfoy," he was talking about earlier, of course, "though," he continued full of loathing, and shaking with the intensity of it, "it will never compare to how much you hurt me!"  

"'She' was an illusion, a game, a tool – call it what you may, she's gone forever," I replied, and knew even as I spoke that it wasn't true. 

"But you do want to hurt *me*, don't you, Potter?" I was pouring my own pain, and still too-soon-to-be-cured humiliation into the words. "You'd love to see me writhing on the floor in pain, like earlier, don't you? And perhaps see me crying, and screaming? Bleeding? What other dark desires I inspire to you, Potter? Perhaps you'd like me writhing on the floor beneath *you*, and screaming *your* name, and crying for more?"

Potter's face had become very pale during my speech and it betrayed now very clearly each and every emotion he was experiencing. And though some part of me celebrated that I could read him again like an open book, there was another part that trembled and wanted to run from what I was gradually discovering in him. While I spoke, his eyes lit with an irrational fury which testified beyond any shadow of doubt about how much he actually wanted to see me hurting and screaming and crying. I couldn't take my eyes from his. Then he gasped, like suddenly awoken from a nightmare, and the rage in his green eyes was replaced by fear, and I knew he feared his newly discovered ability to hate someone – me – so much that it made him desire to hurt irrationally.

"I'll never forgive you for this, Malfoy," he spoke, his voice so cold and distant, his lips pale and trembling, his eyes dead, looking at me but not actually seeing me as I stood there.

And again I knew he meant not only the deception and me playing 'her' all this time, but, more than everything, he meant the way I could awake in him the desire to inflict pain, and the way I had made him enjoy for several seconds that desire, and the way he had been able to hurt 'her' intentionally and without remorse, because he knew he was in fact hurting me.

"'Never' is too big a word, even for you, Potter."

He laughed hollowly. "Perhaps you're right. Try 'never' as in 'as long as you live', then."

He took a step in my direction. "But it's not like you care anyway, is it, Malfoy?"

"And you just know that because you know everything, Potter?" I spat.

"Oh, please," another step, "you don't just have enough of a soul to care." 

He paused. 

"But you have very nice lips."

And to prove his point, Potter took another two steps and kissed me. My heart stopped.

"Think about it, Malfoy, and wonder."

~``~

After crawling back in my bed that night, I realised I couldn't forgive Potter for what he'd done, no more than he could forgive me for what I'd done. The difference between the two of us was that I understood why he'd wanted to hurt and humiliate me, while, most surely, he had no clue about my motives to become 'her' and play games with his mind. 

So I couldn't forgive him, true, but when thinking about earlier, I was able to do so with a cold detachment, the anger and revulsion still there, but touching only the surface now, while deep down I was numb. Paralysed.

I thought and wondered, like he wanted me to. I thought about his lips that had been cold and never parted while he'd been giving me that final kiss, and about his eyes, closed, and about his hands, wrapped so tightly around my forearms, leaving purple marks. Reminders of his hate. And I wondered who was he really punishing? Me or himself?

Then I dreamed of him. Again. This time, though, the dream was different. It seemed very real in a most disconcerting manner. And it wasn't your average wet dream either. It started in a very unspectacular way, actually.

**Potter and myself were in a room I didn't recognise - quite understandably, in fact, because it looked very dusty, very orange and, overall, very Muggle. My dream-self didn't run out of there screaming though, but then, strange things happen when you're dreaming. Speaking of which… Dream-Potter started to talk.

**"Let's see who lasts longer this time, then!" And he pointed his wand to me.**

Another strange thing about dreaming is that, one way or another, your Dream-Self always knows what to do next, even in the most absurd of the situations. Not so surprising, considering that your Dream-Self's actions (or should I say, reactions?) are usually as absurd as the said situations. Following the rule, my Dream-Self pointed his wand at Dream-Potter as well, and then we both uttered, at the exact same second, something that sounded appallingly identical to the Cracking Spell. Of course, _I_ knew that the Cracking Spell was mainly intended to tear to pieces old rotten furniture one wanted to dispose of, but apparently my Dream-Self and Dream-Potter were blissfully oblivious to that little detail. Dreams are weird. If you're wondering why I bother with this particular one, wait until I get to the good part. Yes, there is one.

In the dream, what we were doing made perfect sense. My Dream-Self was very aware that it was a competition. The Cracking Spell was supposed to cause pain (like Cruciatus, only no one thought about making it illegal, because no one thought about using it this way - oh, the possibilities! – my most Rational-Self reasoned) and the first one to break under it would be the loser. 

**Seconds went by, then minutes, or so it seemed, before Potter finally lowered his wand and I knew I had won. And then, all of the sudden, I knew what I had won, as well.

**"I'm all yours, Malfoy." Potter's voice was trembling, but it could have been the spell.

**I touched his face gently and found that it was burning. The dream shifted, and now Potter and I were lying on a bed, or, to be more precise, Potter laid on the bed, shirtless, and I was on top of him, kissing him hard on the lips, then tasting every inch of bare skin I could find. It was everything I'd desired, everything I'd expected. His skin was burning, making my own skin feel very cold, in contrast. I felt so powerful it was intoxicating. Just like Potter's scent. And this power I held over him ran through my blood, making me want to both caress him and hurt him madly. He deserved both, after all.**

The dream shifted again. 

**We were both naked now and Potter writhed beneath my body, like he needed to feel as much of my skin as possible. I knew, because I felt the same need. My skin was so cold and his was so soft and hot. I caught his wrists at one point and pinned him on the mattress. He let me, but didn't stop squirming either. I could hardly think anymore, it felt so good and all I wanted was him. My hands squeezed his wrists tighter and tighter, while my lips planted furious kisses all over his face. His legs wrapped around my waist and his eyes pleaded. And then he moaned my name, and I thought never in my life I'd heard something more beautiful.

**"Draco…" 

**And, for an almost imperceptible moment before the dream ended, I didn't want to hurt him anymore. **

I woke up with a start. As my mind slowly reacquainted itself with the reality, I felt drained. Something had snapped inside me. Or rather, several things had snapped. The most painfully obvious of all was that I couldn't control my Obsession, Infatuation, Whatever-It-Was, with Potter, and nor did I want to. To put it in an awfully clichéd way, it now controlled me. I still don't understand precisely why it happened. Or, rather, why it happened then, when I should have hated him the most. 

Perhaps I was drawn to his own, newly awaken hate and darkness, or perhaps you can't hurt somebody so much without ending up irrevocably bound to them, or it could have been simply his last kiss, also his first, given freely. I thought I had that one figured out, but the more I pictured the scene, again and again in my mind, the more confused I got. Yes, of course, that's what Potter had intended, to confuse me, but what if there was more to it? Like he was proposing a sort of truce, like he wouldn't forgive me, and in fact he wouldn't care about me any more than he had before, but if we were to fall – yes, I know it sounds lame and melodramatic and cheap, but there's no better describing the madness that was – if we were to fall, perhaps the kiss had been Potter's way to tell me we could fall together. Who said hate wasn't as good as any emotion to make you feel alive? At the beginning of the year, before 'she' entered the little scene of his life, Potter had been anything but alive, and now that 'she' wouldn't be around anymore to make him laugh and joke and share his heart, maybe I was just as good for sharing glares, angry words and bruising kisses instead.

~``~``~


	9. Make Me Forget

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humour

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N: **I'm updating the entire story, because I'm not going to be home the following days. I really hope you'll like it! And thanks for the reviwes! I corrected the mistakes, but I'm quite sure there are plenty left. Sorry for that. I'm happy you like the story so much you don't mind them. Merry Christmas to everyone!

*…*/**…** are used for Italics. (**…** for longer fragments like dreams, letters, flashbacks.)

IX. **[Make Me Forget]**

I didn't see Potter the following day. Another of Father's letters reached me by noon. Actually, it was more a brief note than a letter. It said: 

**Meet me at the Hog's Head, in six days time, ten o'clock in the morning. Talk to Snape. He will give you permission to leave.**

I had a bad feeling about this. Or, to be completely honest, though honesty suits me just about as good as ballet suits a giant, I simply dreaded to face Father. For a second, the thought crept into my mind that he would look in my eyes and know everything about me and Potter. About what it had taken to get to him. 

So… denial seemed a good idea right then. I resolved not to think about the scheduled meeting until its time would actually come. It wasn't easy. I needed a distraction.

~``~

Only the next day, around noon, I saw him, I mean, Potter. I was hungry and on my way to lunch. And when I saw him, I suddenly lost my appetite and had to struggle to swallow the lump in my throat. Potter was sitting on the stairs, nibbling a very large, delicious-looking, golden apple. I looked at him, questioningly and expecting a glare, or a disgusted face, but, to my surprise he made a small gesture with his head that invited me to join him. I sat down.

"How the hell did you get an apple in this season?" I heard myself inquiring all of the sudden, after several long minutes filled with nothing but the sound of Potter taking small bites of his apple.

"Dumbledore." His voice was composed and it betrayed no anger, yet, no amiability. "He said it might cheer me up. Said I hadn't been very happy lately." He shrugged. "Wanna a bite?"

Of course it was surreal. Sitting with Potter upon a stair step and sharing an apple with him like we were best pals. After all that had happened between us, after how much I'd hurt him and after how much he'd hurt me in return, after the cruel words spoken between us, after the punishing kisses we'd shared, it shouldn't have been anything more but surreal. Yet Potter was only inches away, offering me a bite from the apple Dumbledore had given him. 

The apple was indeed every bit as delicious as it looked.

"Nice," I said, after Potter had held the apple up to my lips, so I could taste it. He nodded and took another bite of his own. 

Potter looked different. Not that he'd somehow miraculously Transfigured his external appearance. He wore the same pair of glasses, and the same pair of oversized jeans, and an equally oversized grey sweater that looked familiar, and his hair was just as bad as always, but he was nonetheless changed. The way he used to hold his shoulders, and the way he used to curl his lips every two seconds, and the way he used to keep his face open and sincere, and many other small details, which made him so… well, so him, before, weren't there any longer. And yet he hadn't changed enough to be a different person, which was even worse. Again, I felt a lump in my throat that I couldn't swallow back and, before having time to wonder about it, I found myself urging to tell him I was sorry. I didn't. Words meant nothing, after all. Not to mention that, if he'd asked 'What for?', I wouldn't have been able to answer. Because I couldn't tell what I was sorry for, myself.

~``~

Later on the same night, the door of my room burst open and Potter stumbled in. I didn't have time to wonder how – in the name of Hell and All Its Demons and Other Nasty Soul-Sucking Creatures! – had Potter managed to discover the entrance to our common room _and_ find out the password, because as soon as he was inside, he spoke.

"I want to see you naked, Malfoy."

I'm not an easy to shock person. Really. But I'm only human.

"I think you've just dropped your quill."

"What did you say, Potter?"

"I think you-"

"No, before that, you idiot!"

"Oh. I said I wanted to see you naked. So?" 

"I don't know, Potter. Will you return the favour?" I sneered, trying my best to hide the slight shaking of my body.

"Maybe. But not tonight. Well?" he asked again pointedly.

I couldn't say another word. My hands moved almost mechanically to upper button of my shirt, while my eyes refused to live Potter's face.

"No, no, no, allow me." Potter's hand gently took mine away from the buttons, and then it descended upon my shoulder. He guided me to the bed and made me sit. Then he carefully started to unbutton my shirt, very absorbed in the process. And, still, my voice was stuck somewhere along my throat and refused to obey me. Not to mention that Potter's touch burned my skin and the heat slowly dissipated from the places caressed by his fingers into my entire body. I couldn't remember being more aroused in my life.

Of course, I'd always known my body was perfect – oh, sod modesty, it never worked for a Malfoy! My body was a bloody work of art. And yet I was nervous. The way he looked at me made me shiver. He didn't seem very eager, and certainly not lustful. I had no idea where this was going, but I knew pretty certainly where it was *not*, which was disappointing. Potter's eyes were determined, like when he was chasing the Snitch. I abandoned the thought, because comparing myself to the Snitch wasn't at all flattering. 

And then he smiled. All my clothes had been discarded one by one, and he had taken a step back, gazing at me like one gazes at a sculpture inside a museum, as I was sprawled completely naked on my bed. It unsettled me even more. 

"Your body is a work of art, Malfoy." At least he could acknowledge that. He was slightly ironic, I could tell, but there had been also a hint of admiration in his words, and it caused a wave of heat to pass through my skin. "But I imagine you already knew that, didn't you?" He stepped closer again. "I could get used to touching this body." His hand caressed my chest. "Taste it." 

He leaned to my lips but didn't touch them. I understood then, this wasn't at all about me, but about himself. Potter wanted to know if he was really attracted to me, and by extension, to members of the same gender. I stifled a chuckle. Wonder Boy hadn't totally overcome his little denial crisis! Well, I was more than glad to help him out of it. 

"Don't move, Malfoy!"

My hand, that had been reaching for his chest, froze mid air. "You're scared, aren't you, Potter?" I mocked him. "But you also wanna play, don't you?" 

"I told you," he hissed, pressing my hand down onto the mattress. "Not tonight. Tonight, if there'll be any touching done, it will be done by me."

As to prove his point, his hands slid over my shoulders. The touch was exquisite, though it shouldn't have been. You know how it's like – you dream about something so long, and you imagine every little detail, that when it's finally happening, you face one of those Big Disappointments Life's so keen to throw on us every once in a while – because She is, I'm sure I've already mentioned it, a Bitch. With Potter, it wasn't like that. Every thought or expectation I might have had regarding him before, suddenly ceased to matter. Not only that, but all thoughts and expectations had vanished completely, so if I'd ever imagined something else, something better, it was completely forgotten, because there was no place left in my mind for that 'something else', for *anything* else in fact, except the intense pleasure that Potter's hands were delivering so adeptly. 

The touches had been gentle and shy at the beginning, like he was afraid to feel too much of my skin under his palms, but grew bolder, more sensuous in a matter of minutes. His fingers travelled slowly over my chest. Past my stomach, against my hipbones, around my navel… There he paused shortly, hesitating, before going lower, caressing the inner side of my thighs. And I wondered, though in not so many words – because I wasn't in a state to formulate coherent words, not even in my head – I wondered, how could Potter hate me and at the same time touch me like that, like he could feel what I expected of him, like he could read my mind. No, not like he could read my mind, but like he could read my skin. I opened my eyes, which had snapped closed at a certain point, to look at his face. After all, the answers were there, on his face, most of the time. 

But I hadn't been prepared for the sight that met my eyes. The look on his face was so intense, it almost made me come in his hands at the very instant. He looked achingly ecstatic, like he enjoyed to do the touching as much, if not more than I enjoyed being touched. Our eyes locked, and, for a brief moment, we shared something else than hate and pain, for a moment, there was only ecstasy and his hands wrapped around me, driving me to the edge, ready to burst. 

Then he looked away, his hands leaving my body, and took two steps to the door.

"See you tomorrow, then, Malfoy. Maybe we'll have breakfast together," he offered in a voice that clearly spoke of disinterest. But his face and hands earlier, they had spoken of completely different things.

"Aren't you going to finish what you've started, Potter?" I almost stammered.

"Oh, that." He gave my hard-on a long, guarded look, then shrugged. "Take a cold shower." 

He hated me. But, as long as he wanted me as well, it didn't matter. And he definitely wanted me.

I also hated him. Because he could control all the emotions I couldn't. 

~``~

Strangely enough, we did have breakfast together the next morning. I couldn't rest very well after the previous night's events (cold shower or not), and I don't know about Potter, but the fact remains that we were both in the Great Hall at a very early hour, without anyone else around to disturb us. I almost chocked on pumpkin juice (you noticed how the blasted pumpkin juice is always around? That's because we bloody got it every morning!) when Potter dropped unceremoniously by my side at the Slytherin table.

"What… are… you doing?" I asked, somewhat incoherent with surprise.

"Having breakfast with you and pointing out the obvious, Malfoy," he answered in a bored tone, filling his plate.

"_This_ is the Slytherin table, Potter."

He snorted, with his mouth full, which was disgusting and I'm pretty sure I scowled at him, I don't remember. If I did, he didn't look too impressed, because he went on with a forceful cheerfulness, 

"Oh, great, so I'm not the only one pointing the obvious around here."

"You know what I meant, Potter." Of course he knew. Gryffindors don't eat at the Slytherin table. Never. It's one of those Things That Never Change – can't think of a good example now. But. Slytherins and Gryffindors. They don't mix (at least not in public).

"Y'know…"

"Stop speaking with your mouth full, Potter, it's disgusting!"

He swallowed and I watched, fascinated, his throat contracting and his tongue brushing past his lips, licking away bread crumbs and traces of butter.

"You know, the Sorting Hat fancied putting me into Slytherin. So I'm just trying to imagine how it would have been like on this side. You don't have a very nice view from here." 

"I find it harder and harder to understand that mind of yours, Potter."

He frowned. "What about understanding? I thought you wanted to shag."

I didn't trusted my hand with a knife right then. I put it down by my plate.

"Well, I thought you didn't." I placed a hand on his thigh and drew closer. "Apparently, I've been wrong. But I'm curious, Potter… What made you change your mind?"

His voice sounded bitter when he responded. Our plates laid forgotten on the table, none of us much in the mood for eating now. I shouldn't have asked the question. It hang above us like a heavy rain-cloud, and then Potter finally answered, with an eloquence which suited that early hour very ill and chased away the last traces of my appetite. 

"In an way, you. Remember when I told 'her' that 'she' was enough reason to make me wanna live? I expect so, you probably had the laugh of your life! Well." He pronounced the words distinctly, as people generally do when explaining things to little, square-headed kids. It was insulting, really. 

"You're enough reason to make me wanna die. So, as dying by the hand of Voldemort is a sure bet for me, none of this matters. I can kiss, lick, bite, suck and screw you like it's the end of the world, and no one will ever find out, and I wouldn't care anyway, because I'll be dead." His expression suddenly softened and his voice lowered to a mere whisper. "Just make me forget, Malfoy."

"I love it when you talk dirty, Potter," I whispered in return, complying with his request and kissing him hard. Just to make him forget. 

~``~

He wasn't the only one who wanted to forget. I was also doing my best not to think about meeting Father as the day approached. And we discovered pretty soon that we could make each other forget quite easily. That's how, on the fifth day after Father's note (or, I should say, night), after several other occasional snog sessions, Potter and I were desperately ripping each other's clothes up, down in my room.

"Eager to get those rags you call clothes off, Potter, or plainly eager?"

He didn't bother with a verbal answer. Instead, he pushed me hard, causing me to fall over the bed, and landed himself over my body. I winced in pain, but the next moment we were kissing again, and it suddenly didn't matter. The black turtleneck I'd been wearing that evening, already laid discarded on the floor, while Potter's more uninteresting sweater had somehow ended on my desk, spilling the ink bottle over my Herbology notes. My left shoe flew through the air, crushing into the opposite wall and cracking the paint.

"Redecorating, Malfoy?" His voice was muffled against my mouth. I ignored his words, deciding that tugging at his trousers was by far a more entertaining activity. Potter writhed against my body, obviously trying to help me in my current exploit, but he succeeded only in distracting me. The friction between out lower bodies was too much to stand, so I renounced getting him out of the pants, and took the more direct path, sliding my hand into them. Potter moaned and bit my shoulder. I screamed, and it wasn't with pleasure. The idiot had bit me quite nastily.

"That hurt, Potter!"

The kissing and writhing ceased for a moment. Potter took advantage of this interlude to kick his own shoes off his feet and slip out of the stupid pants, before straddling me and having me pinned on the bed firmly.

"I've never done this before, Malfoy." For someone who was admitting his absolute ignorance regarding sexual matters, Potter's voice had sounded way too confident. 

"How lovely, Potter. Do you mean 'never' as in 'never with another bloke' or 'never' as in 'I'm an innocent, inexperienced, helpless virgin, please-shag-me-senseless'? Though you certainly didn't seem inexperienced. Perhaps you have a born inclination to go professional-"

"Malfoy." He sounded genuinely amazed. "You know very well that I've slept with at least one, erm, 'girl' before. "

Shit, how could I have forgotten about _that_ night? Potter making love to 'her', if that's what it had been. I must've blocked out the memory completely. Thanks for spoiling my mood, Wonder Boy! I felt nauseated only at the thought of *that* night.

"Stop acting so confident, Malfoy!" he went on, looking straight into my eyes and knowing very well how deep his words sliced into me. "I find it hard to believe *you_* _are *that* experienced! 'She' was quite  – how did you say it ? oh, yes – the 'innocent, helpless, inexperienced virgin'?"

"I hate you beyond hate, Potter!" I yelled at him. "As for 'innocent, helpless, inexperienced', I'll let you know it was not and it's not the case! And 'her' virginity was only a side-effect of the ruddy potion!"

"Oh, I wondered how you managed the transformation. What's that potion you used…? Dark stuff, I reckon," he interfered casually.

"You can move your Gryffindor arse out of _my_ room now, Potter. Suddenly, I'm not in the mood anymore," I announced him in a cold tone.

"Yeah, I've wondered about this too… How come a Slytherin Prefect gets his own room?" I glared at him, trying to impress on his idiotic mind just how sick I was of his face at that moment. His voice softened a bit while he spoke again. "Look, Malfoy… I'm sorry."

My face must've shown some signs of wonder, as he continued to explain quickly.

"Oh, not because I humiliated you that night, rest assured. You deserved that. But I'm sorry about how I chose to do it. I truly regret not choosing to beat the hell out of you instead."

He leaned to kiss me, and his kiss was hard on my lips, like always. I didn't have the strength to pull away. 

"I'm sorry," he said again, grinding his hips against mine, not sounding at all like apologising, but merely stating a fact. Yet his kisses became softer now, and his lips were tracing wet, warm paths over my cheeks, and nose, and eyes, almost tenderly, and I found myself forgetting once more.

"So how experienced are you really, Malfoy?" he whispered into my ear before letting the tip of his tongue slide over my earlobe, teasingly.

I felt insulted. I actually was 'that experienced'! Well, with girls at least, but it's not like I didn't know what to do with Potter's body as the opportunity presented. Back in those days, the Slytherin common room was, without exaggeration, the Bottomless Fountain of Knowledge for All Things Sex-Related. In theory, I knew very well how to perform an exquisite blow job (not that I necessarily intended to grant Potter the favour) or what it took for two guys to shag, like lubrication spells and preparatory stretching, and so on, so forth.

"Fuck you," I snapped at Potter. What's shagging without dirty words, anyway? 

"Eloquently put, Malfoy," he sneered.

And then it hit me. Potter was still on top. If he thought it was going to happen that way, the stupid sod…

"Get off me, you idiot!" I shouted and didn't wait for him to comply (which was questionable enough) and threw him on the floor. Oh, whoops, sorry. Potter look baffled.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!!" he shouted in return.

"I'm not going to be a bloody bottom, that's what's wrong!"

"Oh." Just that, and then he was laughing so hard that violent convulsions shook his ribcage. It struck me that Potter was quite an appalling sight when he laughed. I wondered, probably for the hundredth time, what made me desire him like a lunatic.

"Well," he spoke again, after finally calming down, "if it comes down to it, it's not like you really have a choice. I'm stronger than you, Malfoy."

"That's called rape, Potter. You wouldn't… Would you?"

"You're the idiot here, Malfoy! Of course not, it would be more fun to have you completely willing." He was still on the floor, now with his legs crossed underneath him and elbows propped on the bed.

"Do you see me laughing? And do you even know what we're talking about here?" I snorted. I was positive that Gryffindors didn't have Weekly Advanced Shagging Common-Room  Seminars, with occasionally live demonstrations. On the other hand, we, Slytherins did, even if it was essentially an illicit affair of which Snape pretended to know nothing. 

"You can't be on top, Potter, because you've just confessed you know nothing about how these things work-"

"I only said I didn't do it before, not-"

"As I was saying, you know nothing about it," a look at his face convinced me that I was right, "and that would make the experience rather unpleasant for me." 

"So what do you propose? I don't want to be a 'bottom' either."

A certain dream popped in my head, with the memory of a certain Cracking Spell (I might have been Obsessed with Potter, but I was not that stupid as to perform Cruciatus in front of Dumbledore's Saint Boy, what did you think?) and I knew exactly what we were to do. 

"We can sort it out with some kind of duel. A test of endurance, more precisely."

"What do you have in that twisted mind of yours, Malfoy?"

"Do you know to cast the Cracking Spell, Potter? Doesn't matter, I'll show you. You, me and the magical word, it's that easy. Oh, and lots of pain. The one who lasts longer gets to choose."

I was surprised that Potter grasped it so quickly. 

"Oh, I can see where you're going. Isn't that Spell supposed to be illegal?" 

"Not when cast upon inanimate objects you want to tear to pieces," I spoke in my best 'unimpressed' voice. "How good an impression of an old rotten cupboard can you produce, Potter? Might help me focus better."

"Save your sarcasm for later, Malfoy. Might help you _cope_ better when I'll be on top, doing 'unpleasant' things to you. So, just to clear things out… The deal is that I point my wand at you and you point your wand at me, we cast this Cracking Spell and the first to take his wand away goes under."

"Very nicely put, Potter. Almost poetic. Not to mention, always the confident one."

I showed him how to perform the spell, then we pointed the wands at each other and both uttered the magical word at the same time. 

"*Caessio*."

It should have worked. In the dream, I was the one who lasted longer. But the dream was a very weak consolation, when, after precisely two minutes – I know it lasted precisely two minutes because I counted every miserable second as a means of distraction, and it didn't work – Potter landed himself over my still aching body, smirking.

"You have the pain endurance of a two year old, Malfoy," he found necessary to announce me. "Guess I won. Well." He gave me an expectant look. "Educate me."

I was too exhausted – already, and without doing anything significant at all – to speak. I gathered enough strength to raise an eyebrow instead.

"You know," Potter patiently explained, "tell me what to do next with your body."

I snorted.

"You really don't take pain very well, do you, Malfoy?"

"You really are a mood spoiler, Potter!" I finally managed to retort.

"I'll take that – " he leaned to kiss me " – as a sign – " my lips parted, allowing him to slid his tongue inside my mouth " – you feel better."

The response I mumbled was incoherent, because Potter suddenly decided there were too many clothes left on me and was tugging at my trousers. I returned the favour by helping him out of his boxers, before getting rid of mine, as well. 

"You need to do more touching, Potter!"

"But I'm touching you already, Malfoy…"

"Idiot, you know what – oh…" Of course he knew what I meant. Potter could do some absolutely wicked things with his hands. It was almost unbearable. And time stopped for us, and there was only pleasure, and Potter's hands, and Potter's lips, and his naked body melting over mine… And did I mention time stopping?

"Malfoy… don't think… can't last any longer…"

I decided I loved it when Potter got incoherent.

"Tell me… Potter…"

"Want you…"

I wrapped my legs around his waist.

"…can you… cast… a Lubrication Spell…"

Before he could asked 'What for?', which, by the dazzled look in his eyes, was going to happen, I silenced him with a hungry kiss and showed him 'what for' instead, casting it myself, both on him and on me. It was the weirdest of sensations.

"Come on… Potter… don't chicken out now…"

He kissed me and slid into me slowly. It hurt, but not as bad as I expected. As he started moving, I wrapped my legs even tighter around him. We didn't look at each other. A quick glance revealed that Potter was staring at my shoulder, where he had bit me earlier and I was probably bruising already, and I watched his lips, pink and swollen, and slightly parted. With the unfamiliar pain, the world had fallen again into focus, but then Potter's right hand began to stroke me, and it felt so bad and so good at the same time, that I closed my eyes and had to bite my lips, because, otherwise, I would've screamed his name so loud Harry Harry Harry…

He lowered the pace without warning, and I opened my eyes, which had snapped closed at a certain point, only to find him looking at me.

"Are you okay, Malfoy?"

Oh, how I wanted to scream dirty words at the idiot! Purely out of anger, don't misunderstand me. Some time to start feeling concerned!

"Don't stop," I managed through my teeth which were gritted for a strange reason, and I thrust my body upwards, into him, deeper, and I drew him closer, to whisper into his mouth, that tasted so amazingly of him. "Too late to stop now…"

And he didn't stop, until much later, or sooner, too soon – I couldn't tell because time had lost its meaning again as Potter and I forgot everything, everyone, ourselves, as our bodies moved, perfectly synchronized and when I finally came, it felt like being thorn apart.

~``~``~


	10. Not Happy Ever After

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humor

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N**: *…*/**…** are used instead of Italics (**…** is for longer fragments like dreams, letters, flashbacks.)

X. [Not Happy Ever After]

We sat in silence (which was only relative, due to the heavy panting of us both) for about five minutes.

"How did you get the Map back, Potter?" I wanted to know. Shagging makes some people hungry. Me – it makes me curious. "Broke into my room and ravished my things? I thought Gryffindors weren't into that sort of things…"

Potter chuckled.

"Now, don't underestimate my house, Malfoy! But the irony of it all… I didn't break into your room and ravished it, a Slytherin did all the dirty work."

"Who?" Oh, how I was going to rip the bastard's sneaky fingers one by one, slowly and very, very painfully!

"Are you gonna torture him for it, Malfoy? I don't care, actually. Little Thimothy Earl. Yeah, that was the name, I think. It's spelled T h i…so on so forth. The kid made quite a fuss about it."

"But who the hell…"

"…is Thimothy Earl? Trust you not to pay attention to first years. But he's a very resourceful first year, you see, and it appears you pissed him off somehow, so he wanted revenge."

Well, yes, tormenting first years is pretty much a Slytherin House-sport. Hell, if they can't take it, then being in Slytherin is too much for their little arses! 

"Brown hair, brown eyes, resembles a scared rabbit…" Potter offered to refresh my memory.

Now I knew the little scum! I had vanished his robes once. An innocent, little prank. It turned out he didn't wear anything underneath. I mean, how was I supposed to know…? Okay, okay, I did know. Overheard a stupid discussion about a bet. Anyway, it seemed that young Earl didn't appreciate very much being so indecently exposed in front of the entire Slytherin house.

"I don't know what you did to that kid, Malfoy," Potter continued, "but he really hates you almost as much as I do, y'know."

"_You_ are naked in _my _bed, Potter," I pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I didn't say we had a healthy relationship," he replied with a gloomy voice. "But do you wanna hear the rest of it or not?"

I nodded.

"The boy apparently overheard me when I told Ron and Hermione I was sure you had the Map, so he came to me and offered to get it back. I didn't trust the little snake, naturally, but he did show up with my Map, just when I'd given up all hopes of ever seeing it again. At the Infirmary, on my second night there. He told me he'd stayed here for holidays precisely to steal it and pay you back. That's it. Oh, and he wanted to make sure you knew it was him."

"Impressive," I spoke in a bored tone.

"Yeah, whatever." He yawned and started to cover himself with the blanket. 

"What do you think you're doing, Potter?"

"Going to sleep," he replied like it was something obvious.

"In *my* bed?"

Potter yawned again, loudly, before he answered. "Yeah."

"No, you're not. Go to your own room!"

"Malfoy," he turned to me, propping his elbows against my pillow, "I've just shagged you rotten and I'm *tired*. I can't move and I don't want to, so I'm staying here. It doesn't mean anything. There's nothing between us but physical attraction. We don't need to hug and cuddle like love doves. You stick to your side of bed and I to mine, and we can each pretend the other's not even here."

Potter's words infuriated me, because there was no 'my side' and 'his side'. The damn bed was entirely *mine*! I couldn't find my words. He was wearing a bemused expression on his face I couldn't quite read. It made me shudder. Potter was acting so… me. I kept staring at him, I don't know for how long. Eventually, he decided to turn his back on me and grab the entire pillow for himself. 

"Good night," his uttered before dropping to sleep and his voice was low and sarcastic, "sweet prince."

I couldn't fall asleep as easily. For start, Potter had taken hold of the pillow and hugged it like there was some kind of long lost pal. And then, there was this little matter of us pretending the other was not even here. Well, I couldn't pretend that Potter was not in my bed! I have the habit of turning in my sleep, and I need my space. But, under present circumstances, moving meant the possibility of accidentally touching Potter, and touching Potter was not on my agenda right then. 

So I kept lying flat on my back, without pillow and only half of blanket covering me – because Potter tugged the blanket in addition to stealing my only pillow – for I don't know how long, staring at the ceiling and growing more irritable with each second. At some point, Potter had rolled several inches and partially invaded 'my side', forcing me to retreat to the edge of the bed – my *own* bed – and, consequently, I had to let my right hand hang loosely over the side, not to mention that pretty soon my shoulder was stone-stiff.

No, things couldn't go on like that!

"Potter, you sodding idiot! Wake up!"

He mumbled something, face buried into my pillow. *My* pillow!

"I said WAKE UP, SCAR-HEAD!"

He finally half-opened his eyes and looked at me. "Wha's wrong, Mal-" yawn "-foy?"

"You. That's wrong. I can't sleep with you here. You took *my* pillow, and *my* blanket, and invaded *my* side, and I can't pretend you're not here, you stupid prick, and trust me, I am doing my best *not* to touch you, but I'm cold and stiff and sleepy and it's all your stupid fault!"

Potter mutter something that sounded like approval, and closed his eyes. I was ready to shout and wake him up again, but the words froze on my lips, because Potter had just dropped the pillow and extended his arms, drawing me to him.

"What are you doing, Potter?" I barely dared to whisper. He responded with another incoherent mumble.

"Mmm… shu'up Malfoy… we can share pillo'… blanket… more space like tha'… means nothin'… ju'sleep…" He drew me even closer and buried his face into my shoulder (like I was the bloody pillow!), and it might have been just an impression, but I thought I felt his lips planting a soft kiss there before he whispered again something that sounded like 'good night'. My heart, for a reason I couldn't understand, was thundering inside my chest, against Potter's chest, and my whole body was so tense against his that I was sure to get sore muscles in the morning.

" 'lax Malfoy… tis's nothing… sleep," Potter again whispered against my skin. " 's okay… you need to res'..."

I gave in and relaxed, because there was nothing better I could think of doing. Still half asleep, Potter drew the blanket over both of us with one hand, but he didn't let go of me, and it felt good now that I wasn't cold anymore, and my head rested alone on the pillow and Potter's head rested on my chest, and I could feel his even breath, and it was soothing, and thus I finally drifted to sleep.

~``~

I woke up with a start at about six o'clock in the morning. Potter was gone. But that was not the reason I couldn't fall asleep again. Sure, his body had been warm and nice, but the memory of it faded quickly, too quickly, chased away by the knowledge that I would meet Father in no more than four hours.

Since sleeping wasn't an option any more, I decided to take a very long shower instead. By seven, I was completely dressed, not a single bit less nervous about the meeting and, naturally, in no state for eating breakfast. Ten minutes of restless pacing up and down my room later, I had come to the conclusion that the hour was not at all inappropriate to pay my Head of House a visit. Though retrospectively, I don't think Snape felt the same when I knocked at his door, rather noisily and impatiently. 

"Mr. Malfoy, what do you want?" He was probably too sleepy to manage more than a half-exasperated, half-threatening tone. I informed him politely that it was 'my Hogsmeade, you know, sir, *visit day*'.

"Come in, Draco. Since you've already interrupted my rest, we shall have tea together." It's generally unwise to refuse an invitation from Snape, so I stepped in.

He gestured me to sit at the small table in a corner of his room and poured tea for both of us, before joining. I looked at my cup reluctantly. Never trust a Potion Master with your tea, – I think Father said this, once – they have the nasty habit of 'improving' it. But then again, it wasn't like Snape would poison me. He might have tried if it had been Potter instead of me, but really… Potter, Snape and tea – I mean what would've been the chances?

"Mr. Malfoy! Are you still here? Do pay attention when I'm talking to you!"

"I am sorry, sir. What were you saying?"

"I was asking, Mr. Malfoy, if you have any idea why Lucius wants to see you today?"

It was none of his business, naturally! But I bet he was dying to know. Yet he couldn't have suspected, like I did, that the meeting had something to do with Potter, could he?

"No, sir."

He gave me a scrutinizing gaze, but didn't say anything more. Neither did I and we finished our tea in silence. As I left Snape's room, I began to feel more light-hearted. Perhaps there had been something in that tea, after all. I guess Father had been right, but then, he mostly is.

~``~

At ten o'clock sharp Father Apparated in front of Hog's Head. I had been there for a long half an hour, but pretended to have just arrived myself. I didn't want Father to suspect how much this meeting unsettled me. 

Father looked just as calm and composed as always. I'd always admired that ability in him, but right then I would've been more comfortable if able to decipher his features and prepare myself for what would follow.

"Let's step inside, Draco."

The Hog's Head was empty – the hour was too early for its usual customers. Father walked to the bartender and spoke to him in a low voice, before throwing three sparkling Galleons on the counter. The bartender produced an instant, servile bow, and went to the door and shut it. We had the whole pub for ourselves.

"Don't order anything, Draco," Father said, sitting at the table. "This place is filthy, but it's the safest in the area. We won't be staying long, though. I don't have much time."

He looked at me, piercingly, like he was expecting to find something changed about my face since he hadn't seen me.

"You did a good job. With Potter, I mean. I shouldn't have underestimated you before. You are my son and a Malfoy. The Dark Lord is very pleased."

"I am glad to hear that," I replied as expected. He nodded, satisfied.

"As you should be, son, as you should be. Very soon everything will be over. We won't have to – " he pronounced the words with contempt,  " – hide anymore. A bit delayed for my taste, but the Dark Lord prefers to do one thing at a time. First Potter, then the Ministry, then the Muggles, Muggle-lovers and Mudbloods. I dare say," and at this point, his voice reassumed its usual arrogance, "it will be extremely entertaining to enlighten Fudge about his own stupidity, after all the dinner parties where I had to stand his useless chatter…" 

Father always tended to drift away when it came to Fudge. He enjoyed to brag about how he played the puppet-Minister on his little finger, every time Mother or I were around to listen, and I suspect that his 'friends' weren't spared of it, either. Father, truth be told, enacted the Respectable Pillar Of Wizarding Society quite impressively, entirely for the Ministry's sake – it wasn't difficult when one had his money, connections and lack of scruples. Not to mention, an uncanny foresight when it came to guarding his own skin. 

"But one must never hesitate to manipulate the weak, Draco, remember this," he went on. "I'd be in prison if Fudge hadn't been such a weak fool, and what glory is in that, I ask?…"

At the end of my fifth year, Father managed to come out absolutely unscathed from a trial where a dozen of eye-witnesses, Potter on top of the list, accused him of breaking into the Ministry of Magic right by Voldemort's side. Father unperturbedly claimed he was innocent – having dinner at the house of a respectable official figure during the lapse of time he'd 'supposedly' been devastating the Ministry, and accusing an elusive 'family enemy' of having someone else Polyjuiced into himself and breaking into the Ministry with the Death Eaters, only to 'discredit his image'. Of course, the said official figure confirmed his testimony, under Veritaserum, because Father refused to take Veritaserum himself, invoking a rare illness, about which another respectable St. Mungo official figure testified. 

The case was once and for all closed two weeks later, with the finding of a dead body that had shown unmistakable signs of Polyjuice when analysed by experts and, moreover, carried a bottle that still held enough Polyjuice to transform any test subject into Lucius Malfoy. Of course, what the Ministry didn't suspect, or couldn't have proved, had they suspected, was that everything had happened precisely the other way around – Father had taken part in the attack, while the unlucky dead fellow had been playing Lucius Malfoy at the house of the respectable official figure. Anyway, as long as Fudge had bought it…

Finally, Father ceased his tirade about Fudge, Family Honour and His Personal Merits In Maintaining It (which I'd pretended to listen to with filial respect, exquisitely performed after years and years of practice) and took out a piece of parchment from his pocket. It was blank. I looked at him questioningly.

"This, son, is a very special portkey. Make sure Potter finds it. It activates at midnight," Father enlightened me.

I gazed at the parchment, turning it around curiously. It was too easy, not to mention…

"But portkeys don't work on Hogwarts grounds." Any first-year knew that.

Father laughed. "That's why this one is so special, son. Anyway, it's not to you to worry about this! Just make sure Potter holds it at midnight. The Dark Lord doesn't appreciate being left waiting."

I fought back a shiver.

"Where will it take him?" I inquired.

"The Forbidden Forest. Quite appropriate, don't you think? Anyway, I don't have time to stay and chat." He rose from his sit. "And Draco, don't fail. You're my only son."

This time, I really shivered, but Father had already turned, without any other word of good bye, and was pointing his wand to the bartender. When we left, the man didn't have the faintest idea we'd  been there. 

~``~

Meeting Father proved to be everything I feared. It forced me to make a choice that had been looming in the back of my mind ever since Potter kissed me for the first time. To betray Father, thus betraying He-Who-Didn't-Appreciate-Being-Betrayed, thus betraying my best interests. Or to betray Potter.

It should have been easy. 

Yet I'd been dreading the moment of this choice. However, as Father had been speaking, I realised my decision was already taken. Strange, come to think about it. All this time I had fussed about a decision that had been taken long before that day, without my conscious realisation. Which didn't make it any easier. 

On my way back to school, mine and Potter's last days together kept running in front of my eyes. I must've looked really weird to the people I passed by on the streets.

One evening, outside the Great Hall, before dinner…

**"What are you afraid of, the most, Malfoy?"

**"If I tell you, are you gonna be as sincere?"

**"It's fair enough, I suppose."

**"I mostly fear, and please don't snort at that, Potter, I mostly fear pain."

**"I'm afraid of dying alone…"**

One afternoon, on a deserted corridor, after kissing…

_**_"My turn to ask questions, Malfoy. Why did you play the game?"

**I looked at him questioningly and he sighed.

**"I'm not stupid, Malfoy. You know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about 'her'. It was a game. It's still a game, just a different one, where we shag instead of fighting or messing with each other's mind. But I've come to realise that you don't play games for the sake of it, not without gaining something out the game. So what was the real purpose?"

**"What if I'd say I wanted you all along?"

**Potter snorted.

**"What if I'd say I don't believe a single word? But you can keep your little secret. Hope you achieved what you wanted. No wait, actually I don't give a shit about it."

**"Language, Potter. Anyway, I did achieve what I intended." I stressed the verb, hoping he would take the hint. "Sadly," I whispered, sure he couldn't hear me. 

**"I don't understand you, Malfoy. Sometimes I think I do, but you always prove me wrong."

**"Let's just say I live for that, then. To prove you wrong."**

Another evening, after shouting angry words at each other, then kissing…

_**_"Tell me something else, then, Malfoy."

**"Well…?"

**"All the times she was being nice and seemed sincere… It had been just a mask, right?"

**"Why would you care?"

**"Just tell me you were pretending, Malfoy!"

**"I'll tell you, if you tell me why it's so important."

**"I need to hate you, that's why," was what he said, in the bitter voice which had become so familiar to me lately. I need to know I wasn't wrong in hating you, hurting you and using you was what his eyes pleaded, though, so I couldn't refuse that silent plea. I could refuse nothing to Potter. When had the hell frozen over, I wondered.

**"I was pretending all along, Potter. Your Gryffindor naïveté was so… charming," my voice drawled sarcastically. With Potter, it was so easy to play the villain. "After a while it became rather boring. But I used to laugh for hours after 'she' came back from meeting you. So at least you contributed to my good spirits."

**His face contorted with anger. I'd been expecting it, naturally…**

~``~

The strange thing is, despite wanting to protect Potter from himself, I'd never ceased to hate him. I hated him now without determination, without passion, with all the repressed desperation which had been building inside me during the last days. I couldn't forgive him for shattering all my defences and then shattering the old Draco Malfoy to pieces. And not even being aware of what he'd done.

My mind was made and it frightened me. It meant the end for us, if there had ever been an 'us'. But there was no other way out of it for _both_ myself and Potter. 

If I didn't give him the portkey, I was as good as dead and they would find another way to get to him sooner or later. And the idiot really had a death wish! If only he would stand up and fight! But no, he preferred to sink in self-pity and wait for the end! 

So be it then! I had made my own decision, as well. It had been a simple matter of analysing options. Considering, weighting, accepting, resigning. I hated Potter for my decision.

I wrote my letter of good bye on the portkey-parchment. It seemed appropriate. My owl was intelligent enough to deliver it exactly at midnight if instructed to do so. 

There were a number of things I could've put into that letter, but I finally settled for short and dark. I figured it would be more impressive that way.

**There's no happy ending for us, Potter. I'll see you in Hell, if there is one. 

**D.M.**

I've never liked happy endings anyway. They depress me greatly. You know, They-Lived-Happily-Ever-After kind of stuff. And then what? Died of boredom? 

~``~

Looking back to what I've written, I realise it doesn't make much sense. Probably because Potter and I didn't make much sense, but then, it couldn't have been any other way. We were only seventeen and confused. And I also blame the hormones – for how stupid I'd acted during those last days, that is. I don't know who or what was that Potter blamed. I suppose it was mostly me.

Anyway, I'd like to say this is the story as it really happened. Makes a nice ending line. There's only this minor detail – it isn't. This is the story as I remembered it. At places, maybe, as I wished it to have been. The story of my last year at Hogwarts. (The first half of it, all right.) And I'm not turning sentimental, I'm just tired.

Anyway, if you really need to know, Potter and I didn't live happy ever after.

~The End of Draco's Story~


	11. Epilogue

**Title**: A Flawless Plan

**Author name**: Drea Leeways

**Author e-mail**: jumping_melon@yahoo.co.uk

**Category**: angst, slash, humor

**Rating**: R

**Spoilers**: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP

**Summary**: A bizarre potion, a somewhat twisted plan that wasn't supposed to go wrong but it did, and plenty of Draco's musings. H/D slash.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

**A/N**: *…*/**…** are used instead of Italics (**…** is for longer fragments like dreams, letters, flashbacks.)

Epilogue

"…And you have no idea why Draco did this, Harry?" 

Dumbledore's gentle voice reached him as from a great distance, echoing through the Great Hall. Harry lifted his gaze from the floor, where it had been resting for the last ten minutes, to look at his still trembling hands before his eyes met the Headmaster's own weary ones. He shook his head. 

"I have no idea," he whispered faintly, his voice hoarse.

He had no idea. To begin with, he had no idea why he, Harry Potter was still alive. He had no idea why he, Harry Potter was staring, almost voiceless and unable to trust his feet, at Draco Malfoy's lifeless body. He had no idea why Malfoy had chosen to die. He had no idea why Malfoy had chose to die in order to save him, _if_ Malfoy had indeed chosen to die in order to save him, as all appearances indicated.  

Draco's body was lying on one of the tables – the Slytherin table, Harry noticed. The Headmaster always paid attention to details. Even when details didn't matter anymore, like now. Suddenly, Harry experienced the urge to close the distance between him and Draco's body. 

"Let's go to my office, Harry. Minerva will take care…" The Headmaster didn't finish the sentence. He looked at Harry and saw the teenager's white face and angry eyes, and didn't say anything more.

Taking a deep breath, Harry managed to stand up at last. He approached the table slowly, dreading the sight with each step that brought him closer, and yet unable to look away. Draco's face was calm – *Of course it's calm, you bloody idiot,* a voice screamed inside his mind, *he's dead, that's why!* But the thing was, there was no better word for it, because Harry couldn't let himself consciously acknowledge that dead-Draco's face was also the most beautiful thing he'd seen in his life, or he would have broken into tears. And he didn't want to cry for Draco. There was too much he still didn't understand. 

Only once before had Harry seen him looking like this, on the first day of holidays, in the snow. He hadn't been aware that the other boy was staying at Hogwarts as well. After all, why would Lucius Malfoy's son spend the Christmas away from his family? Harry himself was a different matter. He couldn't leave Hogwarts, much as he wanted to. Ron pleaded with him for weeks to come and stay with his family, but Harry knew it would only put them in danger. Voldemort was now openly out to get him. So Ron and Hermione left and he stayed behind. They hadn't known, but he wasn't going to be all alone. He still had 'her' back then.

That day, Harry had been out for a walk when he'd seen him, a dark silhouette on the perfectly white background... He didn't recognise him at first, and when he did, he wanted to return to the castle, but then he told himself that Malfoy wouldn't scare him away so easily. And when the Slytherin didn't seem to notice his approach, Harry stopped and watched, fascinated. Draco appeared to have sunk into a world of his own, as he gazed, barely blinking, at the sky. It was then the first and only time when Harry saw how beautiful Draco Malfoy truly was. Normally, Draco's features were unpleasant, not because of any physical fault, but because of the constant air of displeasure mixed with arrogance that twisted them. Every time Harry had looked into that face, he'd encountered nothing but a cold wall of hate and defiance, directed simply at the world when a more precise target happened to lack. Every time until then. It had also been the first time when Harry wanted – not just hypothetically considered it, but really wanted – to kiss Draco Malfoy.

"Come, Harry." Dumbledore's arm rested gently on his shoulder, pulling him away from the table. Harry resisted it.

"Please, Headmaster, I… is it all right if I stay here a bit longer?"

"If that's what you want, Harry. It's all over now." The old man took of his spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose, in a gesture that spoke of nothing but weariness. "He's finally gone, Harry, Voldemort is gone and Draco's life was the last ever lost to him. Don't blame yourself for it." And with these words of reassurance, Dumbledore was gone.

Of course, it was easy for the Headmaster to say that. But then, the Headmaster didn't know half the story. Harry wouldn't have dared to look in the old man's eyes if he had. And Harry blamed himself for everything. He had been ready to let everybody down and die. He had stopped caring. He had been afraid. And, above all, he'd let Draco kiss him and pretended to have forgotten. It was so easy to forget with Draco in his arms and at the same time so easy to wish to die. Harry couldn't have accepted what Draco had to give without wishing to die, and Draco – he had known it very well, and never tried to make him change his mind. Because then, Harry would have walked away. 

Harry had been sure, until the very recent end, that Draco would betray him somehow. He hadn't been surprised when his first and last letter turned out to be a portkey. He hadn't been surprised when the portkey took him into the depths of the Forbidden Forest, straight into the hands of Voldemort. He hadn't been surprised when the icy, too familiar voice informed him with a perverse pleasure that he should thank Lucius Malfoy's son for his upcoming death. 

~``~

**"Young Malfoy proved he is a loyal and valuable servant," the voice said and Lucius bowed, "and he will be rewarded beyond his dreams."

**The Death Eaters had formed a semicircle at their master's back, waiting. Voldemort raised his wand and pointed it at Harry. Harry's own wand was being held by Lucius Malfoy in his left hand. They'd taken it from him as soon as he'd been portkeyed there, not that it mattered to Harry. A strange calm had taken over his sense of preservation, or perhaps it was merely weariness, but all that Harry could think was that it would be over soon. He was almost eager to hear the words that would put an end to all the fear and uncertainty and shame.

**"What, no defying me this time?" Voldemort mocked him. Harry remained silent. "Perhaps you'll beg for your life, then?" But the curse never left his lips, because a dark figure had appeared out of the forest's black depths, all wands now pointed at him except for Voldemort's, which was still aiming at Harry.

**"Draco." It was Lucius Malfoy who had spoken, and Harry's head turned to the newcomer in a split second. Draco stepped arrogantly into the clearing lit by starlight only.

**"What are you doing here?" Lucius questioned his son nervously, but Voldemort signalled him to stop talking.

**"Young Malfoy, though certainly uninvited, is welcome to stay, Lucius. Come closer, boy!" Draco obeyed and stood only steps away from Harry.

**"I assume you've come to see Potter die," Voldemort continued.

**"I've come to see the end of my mission, my Lord," he bowed at this point, and Harry felt a wave of disgust wash through him, "and to tell Father how sorry I am to be his only son."  

**"He means, he's sorry that there aren't even more Malfoys to be your loyal servants, my Lord!" Lucius intervened hastily.

**But Voldemort wasn't listening anymore, and focused his attention on Harry.

**"You aren't going to beg, after all, are you, Harry Potter? Well, then, let's not play childish games any more…"

**Time didn't slow down for Harry, as they say it happens when one faces his own death. Instead, everything that followed took place so quickly that time might as well have rushed forward rather than slowing. Between an 'Avada' and a 'Kedavra', Draco swirled gracefully, placing himself between Harry and Voldemort, raising his own wand and barely having time to shout Accio before collapsing into a flash of green light. Between an 'Avada' and a 'Kedavra', the world rearranged itself around Harry, as he watched Draco's body falling, an instant after he had summoned Harry's wand from his father's hand. Harry reached for his wand over Draco's dead body and his own Death Curse hit Voldemort so unexpectedly and with such force that it didn't leave him any chance to fight back. And as the Dark Lord fell to the ground, his body already shattering to pieces, Harry also fell on his knees, still clutching his wand fiercely, and expecting to be killed any time now by the remaining Death Eaters, the ones that hadn't run already – all his strength gone, drained by the spell that brought the end to him who claimed to be the most powerful wizard of all the times. 

**They didn't kill him. Dumbledore and the other teachers arrived just in time. Perhaps Draco had warned them. And that's how he came to be staring at Draco's lifeless body in the Great Hall. Compared to Draco's death, Voldemort's own demise was almost meaningless.**

~``~

Dumbledore had been gone now for minutes and Harry still hadn't moved. Then he realised he was alone, that nobody was there to watch him anymore. He could do what he ached to. He laid his head on Draco's chest and closed his eyes. 

There was no body warmth, no rushed heartbeats this time, only silence and death. Harry wanted to cry, but he didn't allow himself to. Yet he wanted to cry because Draco had not only given his life tonight for Harry, but he also had given Harry's own life back to him. His heart didn't feel like cold stone anymore. His mind didn't have to bear a weight too great to carry. Harry was no longer responsible for the fate of the world. Voldemort was dead and he was free of nightmares, fear, death wishes. He felt alive again, and that was the irony of it all. Because he felt alive again, he wanted to cry for Draco. He also felt ashamed, and confused, and almost hated Draco again for it, which only worsened the feeling of guilt. And he wished he could understand who Draco Malfoy had been.  

He tried to remember. He thought about their first years at Hogwarts, about silly pranks and Quidditch rivalry, but the answer wasn't there. He thought about Draco's growing hate for him, so petty that Harry was sick of it and stopped being bothered. Perhaps that's when it started, when Harry had stopped bothering. He'd underestimated Malfoy and dismissed him like he had slowly dismissed everything from his life, running away from his – oh, how he used to hate the word! – destiny.

And yet, Draco managed to bring him back from the darkness of denial he had sunk into, not once, but twice. First time as 'her', then as himself, first time by showing him how to laugh again, second time by teaching him how to close his heart. He had also betrayed him twice. First time by killing an illusion, then by dying and leaving him with unanswered questions and guilt.

"…you don't have enough of a soul to care…" Harry had told him on the night of the first betrayal.

"…I live to prove you wrong…" 

Harry wanted to scream angrily at him. …Did you die for the same purpose, Malfoy?

"…love is only an illusion designed for fools…" 

Harry didn't fool himself about Draco. What had been between them proved that there were stronger things than love, than an illusion…

"…I thought you were just an illusion…"

"…well, I'm not and I'm here now…"

…But who were you, really?

_"…I didn't say I don't have a sense of humour though it might be too subtle for the simple minds..."_

"…just go back to ignoring me Potter…"

_…You deceived me like you deceived everyone in the end. Why were you so good at hiding?_

"…I like crimson, but I look absolutely horrendous in it, so it can't be my favourite colour, either…"

"…now, Potter, I hate you differently… very differently…"

…I had no idea I could want you before. It never crossed my mind. Just as, after the day I saw you in the snow, it never left my mind again. And I was scared.

_"…but if you want a piece of advice, Potter, you don't go around displaying love bites like that, it makes you look so owned…"_

…How could I have wanted you? I don't know what scared me more. That you wanted me or that I wanted you, despite knowing you also wanted to hurt me.

"…what I want, Potter, is to abuse and to adore…"

…Why did you do it, Draco? Why did you want me?

"…guess what?… I've found the Marauders Map..."

…I lied, you know. When the Map showed your name, I wasn't surprised. 

"…how long since you knew, Potter?…"

…In a way, I could have known long before that night, but I didn't let myself to. Since you kissed me on a deserted corridor and you had her eyes. No, even before… Since we fought and then you started shaking in my arms with anger, and later on the same night, we kissed, and 'she' was shaking just the same. 

"…I didn't know, until tonight..."

…It hurt even more because I should have known. And it was so easy to hate you afterwards.

"…'Never' as in 'as long as you live'…"

…But now you're dead, and I won't forgive you for that either.

"…just make me forget, Malfoy…"

…Why why why…

"…Merlin, Potter, tell me you're not crying like a baby…"

…I won't cry for you…

"…I hate you beyond hate, Potter…"

"…good night, sweet prince…"

…Who were you really, Draco Malfoy?

The End

Final Notes (the original ones): …And with a big, relieved sigh from the author's part, this fic is finally over. Okay, let me see… You totally, irrevocably hate me for killing Draco. And you're confused. How can Draco be dead if he was the story-teller for most part of the story? I have one word for you: sequel. A sequel to explain things and fix the not-so-happy-ending problem. (There are always ways. And then, what's a minor detail like character-death to a fan fic writer?) Hey, it's Draco that has an 'issue' about happy endings, I have no objection to them – at least, as long as they are not overdone and leave something to the imagination. But I'm digressing. 

Before continuing, let me get a bit sentimental and thank everyone who bared with me for this story and patiently read each chapter, and sometimes even reviewed. What would a writer be without readers? So thank you, guys, and I hope I have successfully managed to shock you – in the constructive, positive way, I mean – at times. ;-) 

I'm aware that there are better pieces of fan fiction than this one out there (as there are worse – but that's not a constructive line of thinking, is it? :-)), I'm aware that it's been clichéd at places (with the tremendous amount of H/D fics, who can truly avoid clichés?), and confusing, and sometimes lacking consistent motivation for the characters' actions, and I'm also aware that there might've been slips of grammar, spelling etc. because for most of it, I didn't have a beta (not that I'm complaining, it was my decision. I don't like to depend on others, I guess), but I did my best. 

As for the sequel, I'm not promising anything about 'when'. I have the general idea, I even put down a few things, but the holidays period is almost over and writing is very demanding. Writing AFP had been easy and fun in the beginning, before it… kinda took over me.  I started think about it so often, imagining the scenes, loosing sleep while trying to figure how to make Draco and Harry believable, or, at times, trying to convince myself that it's not a complete piece of useless rubbish, that it became tiring. Exhausting. And all I wanted was to see it completed and posted to the last word. 

So I'm taking a break, I don't know for how long. Well, that's really it. If you reached the end of the notes, you're a truly patient person and fully deserve a delicious chocolate bar and a hug. Albeit virtual ones. ;-)


End file.
